Passing Time
by AkamaiMom
Summary: Between Heroes and Threads. How does someone deal with being broken in every way possible? Is it even possible to heal? Jack/Sam, but everyone will show up sometime or another.
1. Passing Time

After _Heroes_, before _Threads_. Lots happens.

My stories don't necessarily build on each other. This one isn't related to others that I've done.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people. I won't make them do anything they don't want to do.

Passing Time

"I wonder if they fart."

Daniel's head hit the window with a distinctive 'clunk'. It wasn't for the first time.

"I mean—they're _part_ human." Jack paused, seriously considering. "Sometimes you've just gotta let loose."

"Jack, I don't think that Goa'ulds pass gas."

"Why not? It's a basic human function." Finger quotes. He loved using those finger quotes.

Jack sat in the driver's seat, his seat belt unbuckled, one foot braced on the map pocket in the door. His face alternated between being shadow and green, shadow and green. The hazard lights were blinking.

"I just think that any digestive processes that result in the creation of more gas than is necessary would be better regulated by a symbiote than by an unblended human being. Therefore it's not a basic _human_ function for a _Goa'uld_." Daniel's breath made clouds on the glass.

"Too bad Teal'c's not here—he could tell us."

But Teal'c was off world—visiting his Hak'tyl girlfriend. The down-time mandated for SG-1 had allowed enough leeway for Teal'c and Ishta be relieved from their respective duties and spend some real time together. It had only taken the big Jaffa a few minutes to ready himself and depart the SGC.

Daniel wished that he'd thought of it first. But, sadly, without the Jaffa libido and mo-jo, there was very little chance of his finding a Hak'tyl warrior girlfriend anytime soon. And for some reason, Earth women were too—Needy? Spoiled? Whatever, they didn't appeal. He'd had a long, dry spell lately.

That's why he'd accepted Jack's offer of a night of stargazing. What the hell, he'd thought, he may as well see them from this side of the universe as from some point beyond.

But then the Super Duty had sputtered to a stop on the side of a deserted road, forty-ish miles outside Colorado Springs. Jack's sputtering about the faulty gas gauge hadn't impressed. Daniel had started cursing Teal'c and his girlfriend long before this point in the conversation about Goa'ulds and their gastrointestinal issues.

Jack had been talkative. They'd already discussed whether or not Ba'al _had_ any. Jack thought that was funny. Ba'al, as in Bocci. Ha ha.

Daniel counted thirteen blinks of the green lights before Jack spoke again.

"How about boogers? Do you think they have to pick their noses?"

"Excess gas, excess mucus. Kinda the same, Jack. I'm sure that the symbiote takes care of that, too."

"Teal'c had a symbiote and he still used to the cheese from time to time. And I saw him pick his nose once—although he told me it was a scratch. But, hell, you've been with him at Mexican Night at the Commissary." O'Neill waved a hand meaningfully in front of his face. "Now there's some chemical warfare. Oughta inform the NID. Put _that_ stuff in a missile."

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Daniel muttered.

"Who?" Jack pretended not to have heard.

Daniel didn't answer. He'd forgotten that some names were better not used at all these days.

"Yeah. Teal'c can really let 'em fly. Beep his horn. Toot. The colonic calliope. The rectal shout. The gluteal tuba."

Daniel didn't answer, unless you counted a long-suffering sigh.

"But these drones—these Goa'ulded bad guys—"

"The Super Soldiers?"

"Yeah. Them. They gotta pee, right? How do they do it in those suits?"

"Oh, good grief."

"I mean, they have those hard suits on, and Jacob had to cut that one's off to do the little alien autopsy. I didn't see a flap or anything, did you?"

Daniel covered his face with both hands and groaned. "Please, Jack. Could you stop? Please make it stop." He found that he was only a little embarrassed by his own pathetic pleading.

"What, you thinking about ascending again?"

"_Jack_."

"I'm just sayin'."

The darkness around them filled the cab of the truck—punctuated by the clicking blinkiness of the hazard lights. Daniel started translating the lyrics to "The Day the Music Died" in his head. He wondered if you could sing it in Asgard.

He was halfway through the first verse before Jack spoke again.

"Do they have to do number two like the rest of us?"

When Daniel didn't answer, Jack poked him in the shoulder.

"What?"

"Pooping." Jack clarified. "Do the Goa'uld poop?"

"Everything poops, Jack. They even wrote a book about it."

Jack was genuinely surprised, and oddly intrigued. "Really? Who?"

"I don't know, Jack. I'm just saying that for all that the Goa'uld are symbiotes, they still have to perform the fundamental operations of the human body."

"But you said that they wouldn't need to fart or pick their noses."

"Not everything with a nose has to pick it, but everything that eats has to eliminate waste, Jack."

"Why? Wouldn't their overwhelming biological prowess allow for better energy storage? Waste is just extra resource that our bodies can't metabolize, right?"

Daniel's mouth opened and closed a few times without any words actually emerging. Sometimes, he forgot just how smart Jack actually was.

Finally, he managed a reply. "I'm sure that they would still need to eliminate."

The Colonel's response was immediate. He raised his index finger in an 'A-ha!' gesture. "Yeah, but do you think it would still _smell_?"

"Jack!"

"There were no vents in the bathrooms in any of the Goa'uld vessels we've been in. Obviously, smell to them is not a problem."

"Maybe they just _like_ the smell. Like dogs." Daniel couldn't believe he'd been drawn into this debate.

O'Neill thought about that for a moment, scratching absently at his chin. He hadn't shaved for a few days. Really, there was no point, was there? They had been given a week's leave—although what the point of that had been Jack still couldn't tell.

Because a week couldn't make up for what had been lost recently.

Dr. Frasier. Sam.

He instantly sobered. What did they say about time and healing wounds? It took longer than a week.

His sigh betrayed him.

Daniel glanced over at that sigh. The clenching jaw, the narrowed eyes, the slight hitch in the intake of breath—Daniel knew what they all meant.

"You couldn't have done anything."

"I could have done _something_."

"I was standing right beside her when it hit. I have it on tape. Remember?"

Jack didn't answer. The green of his turn signals blinked in unison along with the clicking of the hazards outside the truck cab.

"Or are you thinking about Sam?"

Still no answer.

"You're thinking about Sam."

Jack suddenly found a mark on his jeans that was very interesting. He licked the pad of his thumb and scrubbed at the spot with it.

"She's with Pete now." Daniel decided for some tough love. "She's with Pete and she seems to be very happy."

"She's very _something_."

He started on the spot with his fingernail.

"Jack, this won't work."

"This what? What are you talking about?" Foolish innocence—even Jack knew Daniel wasn't buying.

Daniel shook his head. "This—thing—that you're doing." He paused, glanced over at O'Neill, and then splayed his hands out in front of him in supplication—to whom? Didn't matter. "Did you call her? Just now. For gas. Did you call her?"

Grunt.

"You called Sam." Daniel breathed deep and then turned so that he was sitting sideways in the seat, one knee cocked up next to the center console. "You called her to bring us gas?"

Grunt.

"Jack. She and Pete were going to spend the weekend together."

"Yeah, well, so what?" Jack growled. "She owes me. How many times have I saved her ass?"

Daniel turned again to facing front. He rested his elbow on the ledge near the window on the door and played with the O. S. handle with his fingertips. He counted twenty clicks of the hazard lights. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes in an action that bespoke frustration, sadness, guilt, and so much more—admiration, even love, maybe, for the stubborn man sitting across the console from him.

Daniel had long ago admitted that Jack O'Neill was one of the best men he'd ever known. More than anything else in the world, the Colonel deserved happiness. For eight years, he had watched the relationship between his two best friends grow and cool, morph, and falter. It had affected him nearly as much as it had broken them. He felt like the teen-aged son of bickering parents at the moment—glad that Mom was finally happy, and yet so bone-weary heartbroken for Dad that it hurt to breathe.

Jack's voice rose, hoarse, from the quiet. "She came to me after the Super Soldier thing. After Doc Frasier—after—_that_—she came to me again. She came to me when Cassie was so—broken. Where was Pete? What has he ever done but stalk her? He doesn't understand her. He doesn't deserve her."

"And you do?" Daniel knew he did. "You _deserve_ her and she _owes_ you? That's—that's—_Jack_, you know it doesn't work like that."

Jack stared out into the night—inscrutable, impenetrable.

Daniel watched him for a moment before turning to his own window. He didn't think Jack would want him observing that kind of pain.

He counted a hundred clicks, then fifty more.

When Daniel spoke again, his voice was calm—soothing.

"Jack. Maybe it's time for you to go see someone."

Click. Click. Click.

"A therapist—someone to help you get over this. Get through."

The Colonel's chin dipped down towards his chest. His lips thinned, his eyes narrowed. Daniel wasn't sure if he was listening or not.

"You need to get over her."

Click. Click. Click. Click.

"Jack."

"Daniel—we still work together."

"I know. That's why this—obsession needs to end."

Jack ignored that. "And besides, how do you do that, anyway?"

"What, find a therapist?"

"No." He made a swipe with a hand. "How do you move on? When it's someone like her? Where do you go from _her_?"

Daniel didn't answer—couldn't answer.

Salvation came in the headlights that threaded their way up the road and cruised to a stop behind them.

Jack caught Daniel's gaze then, and made a little move with his head. "I _can't_."

With a quick movement, the door was opened and the Colonel stepped out of the Super Duty into the night.


	2. Passing Strange

Passing Strange

Jack sat in his truck in the parking lot.

The clock on the dash read 12:57.

T minus three and counting.

Crap.

He checked his cell phone, which he'd sat on his knee. It was suspiciously silent. He wondered if the battery was dead. He pushed a button and the screen lit up. Damn. Fully charged. He just obviously had no friends who were going to call and get him out of this.

The clock blipped. 12:58.

T minus two.

Crap.

He turned in his seat to look again at the building behind him. Low, gray, boring, it looked like the rest of the buildings in the medical complex. He didn't know what he'd expected, though a large representation of a nut would have been close. Nut job. Nut house.

Going nuts.

Because that's what he was doing. Going nuts.

He checked the phone again. Still nothing.

It was Daniel's fault that he was here—the little weasel. He'd casually handed Jack the business card before the briefing yesterday. The appointment time and doctor's name were already transcribed on the back.

"She's great." He'd said quietly. "You'll like her."

Jack had looked at the card and scowled. "She's a shrink."

"Yes. So?"

"I'm not nuts."

And there had been that little eyebrow raise and the smirk that always said the same thing. "Jack, don't be an ass."

Except he felt like one, anyway, sitting here in the parking lot two minutes before his appointment time knowing—_knowing_—that this would be an unmitigated disaster.

The clock blipped again. 12:59.

T minus one minute.

Crap.

He checked his phone—feeling desperate. His last bastion of hope sat, quiet, useless, on his thigh. He wondered briefly if it was wrong to pray for some really powerful snake-headed bad guy to attack the SGC. After all—Siler might get hurt. O'Neill sighed. Sometimes, sacrifices were necessary.

Another glance behind him told him that the building had not yet exploded, nor disappeared. A few seconds later, he looked in the rear view mirror, just to make sure.

The clock blipped again. 1:00

Blast off.

Crap.

Scowling, he picked up his phone and removed his keys from the ignition of the Super Duty. With an absent motion, he opened the door, sliding out of the truck more than climbing. Slamming the door behind him, he clicked the locks and the alarm with the doohickey on his key-ring. He straightened his jacket.

With one, last, hopeful look at his phone—which completely betrayed him by _not_ ringing—he made the short walk across the parking lot and up to the building. He shoved his phone and keys into the pockets of his jeans and, girding his loins, opened the door.

----OOOOOOO----

It didn't look like he'd expected. It looked like a regular doctor's office—only smaller. It was long and skinny—like a hallway with furniture. In front of him, at the end of the hallway, was a little window with a sliding glass door above a tiny counter. To his left, a row of three plastic chairs marched along the wall before stopping at a door. A table occupied the wall to his right—Sara would have called it a couch table—where sat a coffee urn and baskets full of thimble-sized creamer containers, sugar packets, and cups. In the corner sat a very leafy, very fake, ficus tree. On the wall itself, above the coffee, a medium-sized television had been mounted on a pivoting arm. Now showing?

Star Trek.

His scowl deepened.

Walking along that empty row of chairs felt like a perp walk. Especially since the teenaged receptionist watched him the entire time. She was chewing gum while smiling.

Minty _and_ perky. The combination from hell.

She finally spoke once he got to the little counter.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here for a one o'clock."

"A one o'clock what?" Her name tag called her Brittany.

Jack's eyebrows did a little dance as he tried hard not to reach through the window and smack her.

"Appointment." He finally got out. "I have a one o'clock appointment with Dr.—" Crap. He couldn't remember her name.

He patted his pants pockets, but he knew that only his keys and phone were in there. How long had it been since he'd cleaned out his jacket pockets? Since before his last round at the firing range. He stuck his hand into the pockets and rifled through the contents, but he couldn't feel the card. He pulled out a handful of debris. Bullets, mostly, with a few spent casings. He put them on the counter and reached in again. There was a pocket knife, and a package of fishing lures, and a photograph of—whoa, that was classified—he put that one in the jacket's inside pocket. He pulled out a rock—and wondered for a moment why that was in there, before placing it and a folded up dollar bill next to the bullets on the counter. A few sunflower seeds followed the rock, and a ratty, bent piece of gum, and roughly 83 cents in change. Finally, stuck down in the corner of his right side pocket, he felt the outer edge of the card. He yanked at it with two fingers.

It tore in half.

The only letters still visible of the good doctor's name were the last three—_ago_. He decided to wing it. "Doctor—uh—Zhivago."

The girl screwed up her face. "Who?"

"Doctor Lunago?"

Brittany looked even more confused.

"Chicago?"

"Doctor Biago?" The girl asked around her gum.

"_Yes_—" he slapped his hand on the counter, causing all the bullets to jump. "Doctor Biago. Thank you, Brittany."

"Mr. O'Neill?" She referred to a paper on a clipboard behind her window. "Yep—One o'clock. Dr. Biago is almost done with her twelve o'clock. Have a seat and I'll call you when she's ready."

O'Neill flipped back the cover on his watch and tapped the face. "It's 1:07. Shouldn't she already be done with her twelve o'clock?"

Gum-girl chewed a little more and shook her head. Her short dark curls bounced around a little bit. "Mental health is not an exact science Mr. O'Neill. You can't hurry breakthroughs." Kittens would have quailed before her cuteness.

He smiled back at her—the kind of smile reserved for idiots and senators—and turned towards the waiting room. But Brittany was made of sterner stuff. Her voice turned him back around.

"Uh, Mr. O'Neill? Could you please take your weaponry?"

Jack wheeled around and returned to gather up the conglomerate. Brittany watched while he poured it back into his pockets.

"You know what, Mr. O'Neill?"

He didn't answer, merely raised his eyebrow.

"Cosmo says that man-bags are really big this year. You could put all your missiles and stuff in one and then it wouldn't be in your pocket. Physical organization makes for mental organization."

Jack had a fleeting image of himself wearing a man-bag. Then he saw himself shooting the first person to laugh at him wearing said man-bag. There would be a long trial, and many, many people would testify about how mentally disorganized he was, and how it had made him ripe for wigging out.

He decided then and there that man bags were not for him.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks." He shot her a two finger salute, and headed back to the waiting area. He sat in the middle seat.

The coffee looked singularly unappetizing. Now, a nice, cold bottle of Guinness _maybe_—but they probably frowned on that in the mental health profession.

He studied the wall in front of him. The Star Trek episode had just started, and the main guy—Kurt? Jerk?—whatever—was yelling at his engineer to put thrusters to full. It was interesting watching a show about a space ship when he'd actually been on a space ship or two in his time. The engineer was frantically working at his engines, supposedly trying to make them go faster. Jack didn't really think he seemed very intelligent—he seemed to whine a lot about how the ship wasn't made to do what they were asking it to do.

Carter would have designed it better.

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. Carter.

Sigh.

She was currently somewhere classified doing something even more classified with an NID operative. Jack had been left behind, officially still recuperating from the staff blast he'd taken on P3X-666. He'd found that there were other things lately that were proving more difficult to bounce back from than staff blasts. His sigh deepened.

Behind him and to his left, the door opened, and a middle aged woman wearing polyester emerged, followed by a younger woman wearing jeans and a nubby wool sweater. Jack hoped that sweater girl was the shrink.

Polyester smiled. "I'll see you next week at the same time. Please bring me your self-affirmation journal."

Denim and Wool nodded and sniffed. "I will, Dr. B, and I'll try to stay positive."

Polyester nodded.

Denim and Wool left in a perfumed cloud, and Polyester turned her attention to O'Neill.

"Mr. O'Neill?"

He stood slowly. Completely without thinking it, he lifted the cover and looked at his watch again. 1:15.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, it's just that my appointment was for one o'clock."

"Is the time an issue for you?"

"Well, yeah." Jack covered his watch back up. "I mean, no." Honesty being the best policy, he revised again. "Yes."

Polyester's face turned diagnostic. "Well, let's get this moving, then."

She disappeared into her lair, leaving the door open behind her.

Jack stood for a minute, considering. He could still make a run for it. There was no shame in running away. Monty Python did it all the time.

Daniel would find out he'd been a wuss, though. He sucked it up and followed her in.

----OOOOOOO----

He'd been expecting a couch. Weren't all shrinks required to have a couch? There was no couch. Unless a love seat counted as a couch, which every guy knew it didn't. You couldn't spread out on a love seat to watch hockey—way too much estrogen coursing through love seats to be compatible in any way with hockey. Soccer, maybe. Perhaps even tennis. Maybe even baseball, in a stretch.

Not hockey.

Instead, two tall backed chairs sat side by side on one side of a low coffee table, facing a low long chair that looked like one of those things that people sat in by a pool. Except it was upholstered. It looked French. The love seat made a third part of the center square, with the fourth side, the side that faced the open door, empty. Beneath them all was an area rug that looked Turkish, but was most likely a knock-off. Probably made in China.

A desk, covered in paper and books, hovered in one dark corner of the room, while book cases cowered in another. A fake tree—the twin to the one in the waiting room?—drooped in a third corner. The fourth held filing cabinets. He felt as if the furniture were watching him.

Creepy.

Polyester made her way over to her desk and picked up a yellow legal pad and a pen. Turning, she motioned towards the tableau in the center of the room. "You can sit wherever you want."

"Oh, the choices." Jack perused them. "Eenie—meenie—minie?"

"Many people feel comfortable on the chaise."

That must have been the French thing. He pursed his lips and deliberately sat on one of the tall backed chairs.

"Or the other chairs. Whichever."

She perched herself on the edge of the chaise, and waited.

And waited.

O'Neill couldn't help himself. He looked at his watch again.

"You can start at any time." Polyester uncapped the pen and looked expectant.

"What do you want to know?"

"Whatever brought you here, Mr. O'Neill."

"You can call me Jack."

"Daniel says that you have been struggling a bit lately."

"What, you've talked about me to Daniel? Isn't there privilege of some sort protecting against that?"

"Daniel isn't a client of mine. He's a neighbor and a friend."

Jack leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He didn't say anything.

"He says that you have suffered some recent losses and are having a tough time getting past them."

Still, Jack remained silent.

"Would you like to talk about that, or something else?"

Jack's mouth opened, and he exhaled rapidly before blurting, "Why don't you have a couch?"

"A couch?"

"Yeah—aren't shrinks supposed to have couches?"

"Mental health professionals can have whatever accoutrements they desire in their offices. Couches or no couches."

"Oh."

"There's a love seat."

"Not a couch." Jack shook his head. "Really not a couch."

More silence passed. Polyester began writing notes on her pad.

"Whatcha writing?"

"Just a few notes. Nothing to be concerned about."

"Are they about me?"

"You _are_ the patient, here."

"Not a patient. I'm not sick."

Polyester smiled. "You've heard the one about the psychiatrist and the light bulb?"

Jack shook his head.

"How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?"

"Tell me."

"Only one, but the light bulb has to really _want_ to change." Obviously this was Polyester's favorite joke. She laughed out loud at herself.

Jack cracked a smile—what his underlings through the years had referred to as his 'courtesy laugh'.

"The _point_ is," she continued, "Is that in order for this to work, you have to _want_ it to work."

Jack considered this for longer than he'd intended. Did he want this to work? If he were going to be honest with himself, he was really tired of pain. Physically—it was tough. His knee had never healed well enough to be completely pain free. He refused to take anything stronger than Tylenol unless a doctor administered it—even after all these years he didn't quite trust himself. He remembered the terror of detox, of withdrawal. Never again.

Emotionally—he supposed if he were truly honest with himself, he would say that he'd been self-medicating for years. Humor, sarcasm, whatever you wanted to call it. Sometimes he'd just been plain mean. It helped that in his job he got to shoot things pretty consistently. Sick, but true. He could admit that about himself. You didn't live to the ripe old age of fifty-whatever without some sort of introspective capability.

He'd tired recently of being in that kind of pain. Maybe it was just that he was tired.

His eyes closed, and he leaned his head back.

"Are you ready to talk, Jack?"

The doctor's face was kind, her expression sincere.

When O'Neill finally opened his eyes and matched her gaze, he felt things opening up inside.

"I'm military."

"I know. Daniel told me."

"A lot of what I do is classified."

"If you tell me the wrong thing you'll have to shoot me."

The line was given in such seriousness that Jack's grin was real, this time. But he had no idea where to start.

"I understand that you have lost some team members lately." Doc Polyester figured out for him.

"Her name was Janet. She was a doctor. She'd saved my life more times than I can count, but in the end I couldn't save hers."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"Like crap."

"Deeper."

"Guilt."

"You can identify that." Her statement lacked surprise.

"I'm not without a few skills."

Polyester made a note on her pad. "Let's take today to list the issues that you'd like to talk about during subsequent sessions. Is there anything else?"

Jack clammed up. He slouched down in his chair and crossed his ankles, folding his hands across his abdomen.

"I'm guessing there's more."

Jack stubbornly stayed silent.

"Daniel said something about a woman."

"Talkative little cuss, isn't he?"

Polyester shrugged dismissively. "He cares about you, I think, and has been concerned for a while."

When Jack didn't reply, she forged ahead. "I believe it's a woman that you work with—a member of your immediate team."

"Sam." When the doctor looked confused, Jack clarified. "Samantha. _Sam_. Sam Carter. I call her 'Carter'."

"Are you the only one that calls her 'Carter'?"

"Why does that matter?"

"It's just a question, Jack."

"Yes. I'm the only one. She's also a doctor and a major, so she's got about a billion other monikers."

"And you choose her masculine last name rather than her title or first name."

"She's a member of my team. She's my second in command."

"And as such, she's off limits to you—so you keep her at a distance by endowing her with a masculine, impersonal designation."

"She's dating someone else. I guess it's serious. So yeah, distances are good."

"I sense that you have some history with her, other than that allowed by your ranks and jobs."

"I'm in love with her."

Where the hell had _that_ come from? He closed his mouth tightly, his lips thinning into nothingness. He'd never once actually said that out loud. Not once. And thirty minutes with Doc Polyester had him spilling like he was hooked up to one of those Tok'ra mind reader things.

The doctor looked sympathetic. "Does she return your affections?"

"She used to." Jack figured he'd go with it. "At least I thought she did."

"What makes you think that's changed?"

"Did you miss where I said that she's dating someone else?"

"No, but sometimes it's possible just to be ready to move on. She might be ready for more out of her life."

O'Neill nodded. Sam herself had intimated as much on a few occasions. He'd just thought that they would figure out the _how_ when she'd decided on the _when_.

"You feel that she's betrayed you somehow."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He couldn't speak.

Doc Polyester cocked her head to one side. "It's not your fault."

He didn't look up.

"It's not your fault." She leaned forward too, her voice lowered until she was almost whispering. "People in incredible positions and situations often find themselves drawn to each other—and sometimes that relationship is healthy, and sometimes it isn't. You don't seem like a man who falls easily in and out of relationships."

He wasn't. He and Sara had dated for eight years and been married longer. She was the only other woman he'd admitted to loving.

"You need to find a way to absolve yourself. It's not a crime to have loved her. It's not wrong. It might be the wrong time or place. But love—real affection—is never wrong."

Jack, just for something to do, peeled back the cover on his watch. 2:01.

His hour was up.

He met the doctor's eyes, but looked away quickly. Standing, he slapped the watch cover back into place.

"I gotta go."

And with that, he walked out of the office without a backward glance.


	3. Passing Game

Passing Game

So there were days when he was able to completely ignore the fact that his life sucked.

Today was not one of those days.

This morning, he'd played around some, doing a cross word puzzle. He'd done the words wrong on purpose, hoping that she'd hang around and berate him a little about it.

It was amazing how pathetic he felt about it. Oh, he was choosing not to acknowledge it, but he knew that he was pathetic. It was like Ninth Grade—hanging around the girls' bathroom hoping to catch a glimpse of Cindy Ray Dyney. She'd worn the tiniest little miniskirts—and sometimes she dropped stuff.

See? Pathetic.

So, he still played the game. He still played the roles he'd been assigned.

And now those roles were coming back to kick him in the proverbial butt.

Another Ancient Device. Naturally, the Goa'uld knew about it. Naturally, time was of the essence. Naturally, there was no team but SG-1 that could 'Gate to the planet and bring it home.

Had he mentioned lately how much he hated those things?

And yet it was his job to go after it. So he'd play the game.

Carter seemed totally excited by the thing. She was practically glowing—although he supposed that could have also been because of the previous night's date with Pete the Wonder Stalker. He stopped himself before he could think about what they'd _done_ on said date that would have caused that quantity of Carter Glow.

He'd found, over the last seven-ish years, that picturing Harry Maybourne naked worked quite well in getting other, more offensive images, out of his head.

He would, however, need copious amounts of Clorox to purge the thoughts he'd had last night, knowing that Sam and that smarmy cop had been whooping it up on their big night out. Harry just wasn't cutting it.

He'd sat on the couch watching The Simpsons, and for once, he hadn't laughed. He'd tried to remember his last date—how long it had been since he'd had companionship. He was thinking how long it had been for him. His last date had been so long before that he'd forgotten her name. The last time he'd gotten any at all had been on Edora. Four years ago.

How had he become this? Hadn't he once had a libido?

It didn't help, of course, that every other commercial in the Simpson's syndication time slot featured a product meant for male enhancement.

He really didn't understand the ones that had old people looking longingly at each other from separate cast-iron bath tubs.

If those little pills could counteract _that_ kind of obstacle, sign him up.

But the thing that struck him as the _most_ pathetic? He wouldn't have anyone to try it out with anyway.

He'd only need one bathtub.

To tell the truth, he really hadn't spent much time thinking about his male team mates' love lives. He'd assumed at one point—_obviously_ because he was a complete raving idiot—that both of them were as celibate as he.

But then he'd taken note that Teal'c seemed to do all right with the Jaffa women they ran across, and even one or even _fifteen_ of the women on base got all swoozy when he walked by in all his swarthy male tattooed forehead coolness.

And recently, Jack had become aware that Daniel got on all right with the women, too. There seemed to be chicks flocking to the scientist faster than wriggly to puppies, and, Daniel was responding in kind. He hadn't gotten his own coffee in weeks. The geek had become something of a ladies' man.

Go figure. Maybe there was something to that Ascension crap after all.

So that left him and Carter.

But then Carter had gone off and found Pete—the Uber Clousseau.

So that just left him.

He'd never felt more lonely in his life.

So he sat in the locker room, repacking his vest, trying to psyche himself up for the mission that he really didn't want to go on. Trying to forget that he was the only one that no one would miss.

Damn, he needed that dog.

The door opened behind him and someone entered. He didn't bother looking at whom—did it matter anyway?

Steady footsteps rounded the line of lockers and neared him, then stopped. Jack could tell by the intimidating awesomeness that it was Teal'c.

He sighed.

"You are being waited upon in the Gateroom."

"Yeah." O'Neill continued adjusting things in his vest. He wondered how he'd ever accumulated so much gear in one little article of clothing.

"Are you not prepared for this mission, O'Neill?"

He wondered if he was really going to need spare underwear. Not that anyone ever saw them.

"No. Almost there. Just hang on."

Teal'c remained silent as Jack hefted the weight of the protective vest onto the bench beside him and fastened all its closures. But once it was ready, Jack still did not rise.

To the Colonel's surprise, Teal'c turned and sat down on the bench. He looked sideways at his friend. The Jaffa's face expressed something—worry?

"I believe that there is something concerning you. May I somehow be of some assistance?"

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Assistance? What kind of assistance do you think I need?"

"I do not know. It is for this reason I have asked."

Jack almost smiled at that.

"I appreciate the thought, big guy, but I'll be fine. I'm just in a bit of a slump."

Teal'c continued looking at him, obviously unimpressed with the answer.

"No. Really. I'll be fine. I guess I just need a vacation."

A subtle change in the line of the Jaffa's lips signaled blatant disbelief.

"What do you want me to say, Teal'c?"

"I would like for you to trust me with the truth. I believe that we are friends."

Jack looked around to make certain that they were alone. The locker room sat silent—still—except for the two of them.

"Are you experiencing anxiety over the possible outcome of this mission?"

"No." O'Neill answered, "I can already tell you with absolute _certainty_ that it will end up being a total cluster."

"What makes you believe that?"

"It's an ancient device. Have we found even _one_ helpful one yet?"

Teal'c actually smiled—at least, the corners of his lips lifted a fraction. "They do seem to be unusually difficult to control."

O'Neill leaned down to tighten the laces on his boots. But Teal'c wasn't quite finished talking.

"Much like a spirited woman."

Jack groaned. "Let's not go there, T."

"I perceive that you are made uncomfortable by my reference, so I will make my statement brief."

O'Neill hastily muttered a brief, and slightly sacreligious, prayer.

Teal'c ignored him and forged ahead. "I know that Major Carter has recently established a new relationship with Detective Peter Shanahan. I also know that your feelings for her persist, in spite of her new relationship."

"Teal'c." Jack didn't like begging, but he was prepared to.

"I have come to know you as a strong warrior, and believe that you have only two options. You must fight for her, or you must step aside with honor and allow her to continue living her life. These are my thoughts. I offer them to you in the spirit of brotherhood."

O'Neill grunted.

Teal'c stood abruptly. "I will take my leave now. We will await you in the Gateroom."

Jack listened to Teal'c's measured footsteps as they neared the door. When they paused, Jack couldn't help turning.

"How do you do that?"

"Of what do you speak, O'Neill?" Teal'c turned, his hand lightly resting on the handle of the door.

"How do you fight? You know—for that?"

He could practically hear Teal'c's eyebrow rocket itself upward.

"On Chulak, when I found another warrior had attached himself to my wife Drey'auc, I claimed the right of Kalmar'tokim against him. It is how the Jaffa exact revenge against one who has wronged us."

But O'Neill sat silent, his back to the door. His hand moved and he picked up his cap. He fingered it, waiting.

Teal'c continued. "I do not know how one of the Tau'ri would do battle for this reason. Your rituals and customs still seek to confound me. And Peter Shanahan has not wronged you in any way. He has merely obtained the affections and attentions of a woman who was not attached to another."

Nothing but silence passed between them until O'Neill grunted again. Then he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, messing it up before jamming his hat over it in a well-practiced maneuver. "She's over twenty-one. She's got the right to choose who she wants to be with." Jack leaned over again to buckle his holster to his thigh.

"Is it her age, then, that intimidates you?"

Jack peered back at Teal'c over his shoulder. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I mean only that you are many years older than she, and as such may acknowledge that she might desire one closer to her own generation."

O'Neill suddenly stood and threw his vest over his shoulders. Grabbing the P-90 from the bench, he strode irritably toward the door, the straps of his vest flapping in his wake. Teal'c wisely stepped back as Jack neared him. Teal'c's expression had become one of interest.

As Jack passed, he slowed, pointing a finger at Teal'c. "Watch it, T, I'm _not_ old." Then he stomped into the hall.

Teal'c followed him, intrigued. Down the hall, the elevator was full, so O'Neill headed for the stairs.

"Old guys don't take the stairs." O'Neill started muttering about halfway down the flight. At the landing he turned to where Teal'c trailed slightly behind. "And they don't go off world shooting at alien bad guys, and they don't hijack cargo ships and save little gray aliens from creepy powerful little alien bugs."

They reached the level of the Gateroom. The Colonel shoved the door open and marched through the hall towards the Gateroom. He kept talking, becoming louder as he went. "Old guys _don't_ battle super soldiers and snake heads masquerading as Gods." He whirled, pointing again at Teal'c. "I am _not_ old."

O'Neill stopped short in the middle of the hallway, forcing Teal'c to go around him on the way into the Gateroom. "I can still kick some _major_ ass out there, my friend. Old people don't kick ass."

Teal'c came to a stop at the foot of the embarkation ramp. O'Neill stomped towards him, still ranting. "And, just for the record, old guys need _bathtubs_, apparently, and I haven't used a bathtub in _years_. Too many years. It seems I've kind of forgotten how. But if I _had_ the need of a bathtub, I certainly wouldn't need any little blue pills."

Daniel and Carter stood in the Gateroom, surrounded by SG-3 and SG-5.

The normal hubbub surrounding a departure stilled. All eyes turned towards the Colonel. Some of the steam whooshed out of his tirade.

He stalled. He turned, only to see every eye in the room focused on him. Yeah. His life sucked.

Carter, of course, had to be the one to say it. "Bathtub, sir?"

He reverted to type. "Yes. Bathtub. Little pool—lives in a bath room. Good friends with the toilet."

Daniel and Carter exchanged a meaningful look before turning back to the Colonel.

O'Neill cleared his throat. "Although, apparently, it's not chummy with the sink—feels the sink steals its thunder."

Carter took a half step towards him. From under her green cap, her eyes radiated concern. "Are you all right, sir?"

He answered her by hurriedly strapping his vest over his chest and checking the load on his weapon again.

"Sir?"

"I'm fine, Major." He didn't want to look at her, didn't want to meet her eyes. Didn't want to know that whatever concern she was feeling was only out of respect, or duty, or friendship. He didn't want to think about fighting for anything other than galactic supremacy, or freedom, or just for the fun of it.

Oddly—completely incongruently with the situation, he _wanted_ to be sitting in that cluttered room with the staring furniture, hearing Doc Poly tell him it would be okay. That he wasn't wrong after all.

He was tired of the game today.

----OOOOOOO----

Maybe that was why he did it, he reasoned later.

Sitting in the infirmary, the doctor on duty having already filled his mouth with a thermometer and blinked that stupid light in his face, Jack closed his eyes and felt the silence.

There was commotion all around him, but for some reason, the curtain that portioned off his section of the medical facility from the rest of the infirmary provided a filter of sorts.

He felt alone. Slightly disembodied, but he'd expected that. He'd kind of welcomed it.

He remembered Daniel making the move towards the device, remembered pushing the scientist back against the wall of the monument. He had looked up and seen gliders and other attack vessels, been nearly deafened by explosions so close they'd rattled his teeth.

And in one startling moment of clarity, had looked at his second in command and seen her shift—seen her move towards the Ancient device. He'd known—deep down to his steel toes—_known_ that she was going to do it. And he'd known he couldn't let her.

She had something. She had family—Mark and his kids, and Jacob, out gallivanting around the galaxy as he was. She had colleagues who needed her, a nation who needed her ability. She had a relationship in which she might finally find some semblance of happiness. She was young. Plenty of life to live.

Daniel was in the same boat—too important to be lost. Too much to be lost.

Teal'c had family—and the device hadn't worked on him before. And besides, the Jaffa nation would need him when the dust cleared.

That only left Jack. Who had nothing but a house and a truck, and some questionable salsa in the back of his otherwise empty fridge.

So he'd thrown himself at the thing, and stared into his blinding depths. It was like the ultimate escape—suicide without the stigma.

And suicide was an escape he'd abandoned accepting long ago.

So, he'd thrust his head into the device and let it do its thing, and if he slowly lapsed into oblivion, well, he would count it as repayment for this contribution to society.

And a certain Major, and a certain archaeologist, and a certain Jaffa would venture on.

His eyes opened as the curtain was drawn back. The doctor entered, alone. He didn't know enough about the Ancient device to look more concerned. "Well, Colonel O'Neill, you seem to be in fine form."

"For now." Jack leaned forward, bracing his weight on both hands gripping the edges of the bed. "Am I outta here?"

"Yes." Doctor Who paused. "I understand that you have had this particular experience before."

"Been reading, have you?"

"I would just like for you to take some precautions. It would be a good idea for you not to be alone. There's no reason for me to keep you here, but I would like you to check in every twelve hours. Just to keep tabs."

"Yes." Jack hopped off the bed. "Tabs must be kept."

"For now, go home. Get some rest."

O'Neill nodded. "Will do." But he knew he was lying. Rest and tabs be damned, he'd never be able to do either.

And so he'd broken up the little party in the briefing room. All four of them, the General included, had looked slightly _something_ to see him come up the stairs—Surprised? Uncomfortable? Guilty.

Worried.

Daniel had offered to drive him home, but he'd declined.

The last thing he needed was Mr. Sensitive hovering about.

He'd stopped for some Chinese on the way home, and then left it cooling on the table, uneaten, as he'd sat on his deck and let the dark settle.

He'd taken a long time and studied a photo of Charlie. He wanted to remember specifics for as long as he could.

He'd had several beers, but had quit when he'd failed to attain even a hint of a buzz.

He'd inserted a tape of the Simpsons into his VCR, but had neglected to turn on the television.

He ended up sitting on the roof for the rest of the night, next to his telescope, looking at stars.

And he could admit to himself that this didn't suck—this waiting. The first time he'd interfaced with the Ancient device he'd fought it. He thought he'd had a reason to stay himself. This time he had no such allusions. This would be what he gave—his sacrifice. He'd been willing to do it once before, with the Zay'tarc fiasco, when his brain could have helped Carter's, for once. His brain contained nothing special, but it could—it would—facilitate something profound. They'd have the information they needed about the Lost City, they would defeat the latest in greasy megalomaniacal bad guys, and O'Neill himself would be able to finally let go.

Retreat into the nothingness that lay beyond the knowledge of the Ancients.

So he sat on the roof, the photo of his son balanced on one leg. Waiting.

And for once in the past few weeks—months—years—his life didn't suck.


	4. Passing By

Passing By

Teal'c enjoyed appliances.

It didn't matter what they did, or did not do, he liked the idea of a machine being made to do anything other than kill people. He researched them, tried them out, and had even ordered several from the Home Shopping Network. If he tagged along with O'Neill or Daniel to the mall, they had to be prepared to spend at least an hour in the Sears store testing refrigerators, blenders, and toaster ovens.

O'Neill had even had an apron made for him last Christmas that said, "Jaffa House Elf".

It was pink.

So it usually fell to Teal'c to do the dishes when they had their team nights.

Silence had fallen for several long, long minutes after General Hammond took his leave. Jack appreciated the fact that none of the team members had looked at him with pity. It made the whole stinking thing easier to take. When it became apparent that nobody knew quite what to say, Teal'c had risen and placed a hand on Daniel's shoulder meaningfully.

"Daniel Jackson," he'd said, "Perhaps you would be so kind as to aid me in cleaning the kitchen."

Daniel's beer had worn off enough that he was capable of such help, so he jumped to his feet and followed Teal'c up the few steps that led to the kitchen.

O'Neill sat, brooding, still in the chair in the corner. He hadn't spoken since the General had left. He was playing with the opening in the top of his beer bottle, absently sliding his index finger in and out.

He could feel Carter watching him, knew that she was working up the courage to say something. She fidgeted in her seat, straightening her skirt, and adjusting the denim jacket that she wore. Finally, she heard the water start in the kitchen. It seemed that gave her enough of a cover.

"So, sir, you don't seem to be exhibiting aberrant behaviors as quickly this time."

Jack still didn't look over at her. "What?"

"The behaviors that you displayed last time don't seem to be happening quite so quickly this time. Maybe we have more time to figure out a solution."

Jack shrugged. He stretched out an arm and placed his bottle on the floor beside his chair. He wasn't all that upset about what he would become in a few short days. What rankled was that so much would be left undone. Unsaid.

"Yeah, well, I don't expect anything miraculous, Carter."

"That doesn't mean we can't try. Maybe I could do something with Tok'ra technology."

Jack sighed and interlaced his fingers behind his head. He stretched his long legs out in front of him. For the first time, he captured her gaze. "Carter—just let it happen. We'll work things out."

"I don't want to lose you, sir."

"_You_ won't be losing anything, Carter. Everything important in your life will remain the same, even if I turn into—whatever."

"Sir."

He wondered with a dim smile if she even knew that she had turned the word into something of its own language. He'd tried to keep count at one point how many different inflections she'd given that single syllable, but he'd given up after a while. He'd had to take a grammar class during his college years—something that he'd found almost uncomfortably interesting. One of the more fascinating bits of the class had centered on the physical makeup of sound—what kinds of things the mouth and voice had to do in order to communicate language.

The letter 'S' was a voiceless sibilant palatal fricative—meaning that the tongue connected with the palatal ridge and directed a stream of air out through the teeth to make the sound. 'I' in this case was in its short vowel form—really little more than a line and a tittle—but it counted as a high front vowel. The 'R' in English was normally used as a frictionless alveolar approximant, or some said a retroflex liquid alveolar. All three parts of the word were spoken at different points in the mouth.

Put together, the three letters formed an honorific. A title. In the military—and more specifically in the Air Force, the honorific could be used for any superior officer—even, at times, Non-coms.

Yeah—he was something of a grammar geek. Not that he'd admit it out loud. Ever. _Ever_.

But somehow, for him, Carter used the word differently. A 'sir' for him sounded different than a 'sir' for the General. Softer? More familiar? Almost as if she were calling him by his first name.

There was an intimacy involved that didn't happen for other 'sirs'. Unless he was, as he had recently started to suspect, a total raving maniac. He didn't think that was the case.

This time she meant the 'Sir' gently—chiding him. Reminding him that he was becoming maudlin.

He smiled at her. "I know, Carter. It'll work out. It always has in the past."

She paused, her face troubled. Glancing back over her shoulder, she scooted over on the couch, closer to him. "Sir," she took a deep breath. "About what I was saying before. Before Daniel and Teal'c arrived."

"Barged in." He watched as she tried to figure out what to say.

"Okay. Before they barged in. I just wanted tell you how—" she looked him directly in the eye. "It's been an honor, sir, these years with you. You are an amazing man, and you totally underestimate your own value."

"I'd say right now the White House was underestimating that value."

"Sir. Please."

She deserved this chance, he decided. Even if it equated to torture in his book to be forced to sit and listen. He owed her at least this opportunity to say what she wanted to say. Quietly, he nodded. "Go ahead."

She scooted even closer. "Colonel, I would do anything to fix this. You have done more for this country and this planet than ten men should be asked to do, and you don't complain. Somehow, I will do whatever I can to find a way to fix this. You deserve nothing less than that."

"Carter, I'm not special. I'm an old soldier, and I've been lucky, apparently one too many times. Eventually something was going to kick me in the butt. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

But still, she shook her head. "I don't know how to leave it at that, sir."

"You'll need to learn. Pete won't like being upstaged so often by the end of the world and all."

She sat back into the couch and frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." O'Neill said simply, reaching back down for his bottle. "It means nothing."

Sam looked like there was something else she wanted to say, but Jack decided that the conversation needed to stop. It was his house, right? He was tired of going around this topic.

He looked her straight in the eye. Bending forward, he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, the beer bottle dangling from his fingertips. "I meant what I said before, Carter. Let it happen. It'll work out."

"What'll work out?" Daniel asked from the dining room. He stood at the top of the steps, drying his hands on a dish towel.

"The Colonel thinks that this situation will somehow fix itself."

Daniel shrugged, a kind of eerie imitation of the motion O'Neill had made earlier. "It probably will. These things tend to, you know."

Carter shook her head again. "I don't see how. We don't have the technological capabilities to remove the information of the Ancients from the Colonel's head. It will overwrite his brain and—"

"Carter!" Jack waved his hands. "Gah—stop it!"

"Sir?" This time, not so gentle—this time the 'sir' clearly told him he was nuts.

"I mean it. The more I think about this stuff, the faster it happens. And I'm not ready to go all Ancient quite yet. I have a few more things to do."

"Staying positive might help." Daniel nodded. "That's a good thing." He descended the stairs and sat on the couch next to Sam.

Teal'c, apparently finished in the kitchen, followed behind him. He sat in another chair. "Indeed. It is important to remain believing that things will turn out for good. That is what gives one advantage over an obstacle."

Carter nodded, but her accompanying smile didn't reach her eyes. "Right. Positive."

Silence descended again.

Daniel broke it this time. "So, Jack, I never got a chance to ask you how you liked Polly."

"Polly?"

"Biago—I gave you her card."

Jack couldn't help it. "Her name really is Polly?"

"Well, yeah—I mean, it's Pauline, but everyone calls her Polly. At least her friends do. I'm not so sure about her patients."

"Polly Biago?" Carter cast Daniel a questioning look.

"Yeah—a therapist friend of mine. I gave Jack her card—" His voice died as he saw the look on Jack's face.

Carter's attention immediately returned to O'Neill's face. "Therapist?"

Daniel tried to save himself. "To date."

"She's a therapist that one dates?"

"I have heard of such doctors. They advise their patients on sexual matters, sometimes offering themselves as tutors." Teal'c added.

Jack looked murderous. "She's not a sex therapist, Teal'c. She's a regular therapist. You know—'boo-hoo, my dog died, and I need to yap on about it for an hour'—that kind of therapist."

"You're seeing a therapist, _sir_?" Okay—so that kind of 'sir' he hadn't cataloged, quite yet. That one he'd never even _heard_ before.

"Yeah—he's seeing a therapist." Daniel brightened. At times he lied quite well. "I set them up on a blind date a few weeks ago. He's _seeing_ a therapist. As in _dating_ her. The therapist. Named Polly."

Carter's eyes widened as she turned back to look at the Colonel. They practically took over her entire face. Her expression would have been comical if it hadn't been so—frightening. Jack decided she looked kinda scary.

"You're dating this therapist."

"I've only seen her once." It wasn't exactly a lie, was it?

"But you're intending to see her again." Not as much a statement as an indictment.

"I have thought about it." Jack moved his beer bottle back into his palm. If he couldn't drink it, he might as well use the bottle for self-defense.

"Does she know that you just had the entire repository of the knowledge of the Ancients downloaded into your brain?"

"Carter, I've only seen her once."

Abruptly, she stood and reached into her pocket for her keys. "Well. You guys have fun with that, then. See you tomorrow, sir. Daniel, Teal'c. See you later."

And with that, she was gone. And she'd kind of slammed the door a little on her way out.

Daniel's eyebrows had crept so far upward that they were practically falling over the other side of his head. He looked at Jack and blew out hard, his cheeks inflating a bit with the effort. "Wow. That was close."

Jack reverted to grunting. He wasn't quite sure what that would be described as, grammatically.

"So, you didn't know her name was Polly?"

"The card tore in my pocket. I only had the last three letters of her last name, and she didn't introduce herself." The Colonel pointed the beer bottle at Daniel. "And you're dead meat, by the way."

"Yeah, I know." Daniel dismissed him. "How does a business card tear in your pocket?"

"It got stuck on a life saver."

"Lime?"

"Grape."

"Did you find conversation with the therapist beneficial, O'Neill?"

Jack looked over at Teal'c. He sighed. "Yeah—I guess. She's okay. But she doesn't have a couch. I thought that was weird."

"But the Polly part—" Daniel insisted on knowing.

"Yeah, well—when I got there, she was wearing this polyester suit. So I sort of _may have_ thought of her as—"

"You didn't." Daniel deflated a bit.

"—Doc Poly."

"You did." Daniel sighed again. Harder. "Did you call her that to her face?"

"Daniel, I'm not a complete idiot."

"Really?"

Jack chose to ignore that. He stood, still holding the bottle. "Well, fellas, I've still got things to do before I get overwritten, so. . ." He paused, deliberately waiting.

Daniel rose. "I don't like leaving you alone." He stepped closer to where Jack stood. "You'll call if you need me."

"Yeah—you'll know it's me by the gibberish spouting out of my ginormous yap."

"Yes. Well, even so." Daniel made a nervous little motion with one hand. "Call me."

O'Neill followed as Daniel and Teal'c turned for the door. At the entry way he stopped, watching as Teal'c pulled a stocking cap out of his back pocket. He hadn't worn it on his way in, but he pulled it down low over his head on the way out.

He turned before he stepped off the porch, looking once again at O'Neill. "I still retain your house keys, should there be need for me to use them."

Daniel pursed his lips. "You gave him your keys? What about me? Don't you trust—"

But the Colonel had already shut the door and turned the lock.


	5. Passing Glance

Passing Glance

His truck found the parking lot almost by accident. One minute he was heading to base, and the next he found himself parked in front of a bank of low, gray buildings. He didn't hesitate this time before heading in.

Brittany wasn't at the desk, and the television sat dark and silent on the wall when he entered the room. The lights were all off. He flipped back the cover on his watch and swore softly when he saw that it was after five.

He turned to leave—how had he missed how late it had become? But there had been a few other things on his mind—and the repository knowledge was starting to take hold. He could feel himself starting to slip around the edges. Life wasn't as sharp as it had been before.

A sound behind him brought him back to the present, and he turned to see Doc Polly standing in the open doorway to her office, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Jack." Her voice echoed relief. She smiled and visibly relaxed. "Brittany must have forgotten to lock the door. I'm so glad it's you and not some axe murderer come to part me from my head."

O'Neill carefully put his hands in his pockets. In his current state, he knew he'd need to concentrate more on each individual action.

"I wondered if you had a few minutes." His words sounded Earth-like enough. He didn't think he'd said anything funny. It must have been all right because Doc Polly smiled and gestured into her office.

"Of course." She said. "I'd been hoping to see you again after the abrupt ending of our previous session."

They took up their previous position, Jack on the tall chair and Doc Polly on the chaise. She didn't pick up the notepad, this time, only settled herself on the long sofa with an expectant expression and an obvious enormity of patience.

"I'm different." O'Neill finally ground out. "There's been stuff happening—at work."

"Yes. Daniel mentioned that something had gone wrong at work and that you had been affected adversely." She folded her hands together on her lap.

"Adversely affected." That was an understatement.

"He also told me that it was classified, so that's all he could say."

O'Neill shrugged.

"Was there something specific, or do you just need someone to bounce ideas off of?"

Jack leaned forward and looked at her, serious. "The light bulb—I'm like the light bulb. I want to change."

"In what way, Jack?"

"I'm tired of—" but his head was telling him to say _poena_—he struggled briefly before finding English. "Pain. I'm tired of being in pain."

"I understand that you have endured physical and emotional pain throughout your career."

"I've usually been able to handle it."

"What's different this time?"

"I don't know—I guess it matters this time."

"Because you care? Because this time you're emotionally invested?"

"You could say that."

Doc Polly shifted slightly in her seat. "In what way?"

"In what way am I invested?"

"Yes."

This time it was Jack that changed positions. He dropped his gaze to his hands, to his interlaced fingers. He knew the answer, he just didn't want to _say_ the answer.

"You allowed it to become personal." Doc Polly's voice led him along.

"We're supposed to maintain distance—between ourselves and our subordinates. Between ourselves and our targets. There are reasons for the regulations."

"They prevent you from becoming involved in this way. Protect you from being hurt this way."

"Yes."

"And yet, you still fell in love with her."

Jack acknowledged that they were indeed talking about Carter. "Yes, I did."

Doc Polly looked pensive for a moment before positing a theory. "Do you want her? Not in a sex kind of way—but do you want to be in her life? Because what I think you have to decide is—is it worth it? Is pining for her, knowing that she has moved on, worth the pain?"

"She's also a friend."

"It's already crossed that line, hasn't it? It's tough to turn that one off."

"Unring the bell?"

"Unchew the gum."

O'Neill smiled. "She's already moved on. I need to do it, too."

"Yes."

"How?"

Doc Polly's hand moved outwards, palms up. "That's a question for the eternities, isn't it? How do you move on once your heart has been broken?"

"Do you know the answer?"

"It's different for each individual."

"For a guy like me?"

"It will be more difficult, because you feel things more deeply."

She had him there, Jack knew. He internalized things, even as he tried to deflect them with sarcasm and humor. Defensive mechanisms, he knew. "So? How does a guy like me do it?"

"I've found that truth helps. Accept the truth of the situation and the rest seems to fall into place better."

Jack sat silently, waiting.

"I once worked with a woman whose husband was cheating on her. She wanted to fix what was wrong with her so that he would stop."

"Was it really her fault?"

"Her fault? No." Doc Polly shook her head. "But her insecurities made it difficult for her husband to respect her, and respect is essential in a loving, caring relationship. He was no longer attracted to her because she was so insecure—she was insecure because he was no longer attracted to her."

"The proverbial conundrum."

"Oh, yes."

"So what happened?"

"She learned to look honestly at herself. She was a bright, successful middle aged woman, and he didn't want that anymore. He wanted a trophy wife. She had to accept the fact that she wasn't one of those, and that he wasn't going to love her as she was."

"And?"

"I left the cheating dillweed and married a man who appreciated me as a successful middle aged woman. I know I'm not a buxom beauty, but I still have value. I needed to find someone who would recognize that inner worth. But first, I needed to recognize my inner worth. We forget sometimes that it all starts with us. We are the great definers of self—how we treat ourselves dictates how others will treat us."

Jack dropped his head. He'd been drafted soon after high school—spent most of his adult life in the military. Sara had convinced him to go back to school and complete his degree, and subsequently, he'd risen through the ranks through his black ops work. She hadn't really understood what he did when he left on operations. He'd found it easier to lead her to believe that his work involved intelligence gathering. She didn't want to know how talented her husband was at killing people. She wouldn't have been able to see past that.

She'd been so proud when he'd been made a Colonel—she'd never known the high level target he'd taken out to earn it. She still didn't know. He'd protected her well.

Carter held no such illusions. She knew what O'Neill was, and still respected him. That confused him to no end.

The doctor's voice brought him back to the present. "Can you look inside yourself and see what you are worth? Sure you're Jack O'Neill, but who are you _really_?"

"Nothing. I'm nothing."

"No, Jack." Her voice soothed him, gently caressed his soul. "You are more than you know. You just may not be who or what she needs just now. But your strength is immense, and your ability astounding. If you could see yourself as others see you—if you could hear some of the things that Daniel has told me. You deserve more than what you believe you do."

"There are things that I've done that cancel other things that I've done. It goes both ways. Let's say I save the world a few times—theoretically."

"Theoretically."

"Does that save me from the other distasteful things that I've done?" He paused. "Does that mitigate the fact that I killed my son?"

Doc Polly studied him for a long while. Finally she took a long thin breath and answered. "Does it?"

A sudden image burst into O'Neill's head. It was a room, and there was a chair in the middle of it. It seemed—out of reach, yet so vitally important that it hurt. He needed to get to it.

He raised a hand to his forehead and gripped his temples with his fingers.

"Are you all right, Jack?" Doc Polly's voice seemed to be coming at him from far away—down long corridors and around corners. When he looked at her, her edges blurred into the room behind her.

He remembered something he needed to do—he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Pulling it out, he flipped it open and pulled out several crisp bills. He hadn't known how much she charged. The numbers didn't look normal—he gave up trying to decipher them and dropped the whole wad next to the doctor.

"I've got to go." Jack stood. He moved towards the door.

Ignoring the money on the chaise, Doc Polly rose and grabbed his arm as he passed. Through the haze he could see her, concern etching her features. "Look at it clearly—with honesty, Jack. You'll see the truth."

----OOOOOOO----

And he had. He'd seen the truth much, much later. The conversation had lasted mere seconds, but he'd looked at her over the crystal array in the engine room and _known_.

He'd been able to read her. Her mind? Her soul? He didn't know. He just knew her thoughts as well as if they were his own. He knew her loneliness, her solitude, the pain she'd felt in giving up her hopes of _them_ in hopes of salvaging a little bit of herself. He knew the ambivalence she felt towards Pete, too—and the guilt she'd suppressed after sleeping with him. Jack knew that Sam wasn't capable of recognizing that—but that was better for her, anyway—it would make it easier for her to find happiness with the cop.

Most of all, Jack could see the goodness of her. She hadn't moved on out of spite, or because she no longer loved him—it had been self preservation. She had needed something other than the non-relationship she was allowed to have with her superior officer.

She hadn't stopped loving him, she'd merely stopped hoping for the impossible. And somewhere within the madness unfurling in his mind, he'd understood completely. He could envision himself as she saw him—warts and all, and he felt himself heal a little.

And when Sam had spoken there, amidst the flickering lights of the engine room, Jack knew she'd wanted to say more. She'd wanted to explain—but he hadn't needed to hear it.

"I know." He'd said, and he'd meant it.

----OOOOOOO----

So he'd let it unspool in his mind. He'd stopped fighting the knowledge, and let it overcome him. He'd sat in the chair and used it to fire the weapon and obliterate the threat Anubis posed to them.

In the end, it had drained him so completely that he couldn't support himself, couldn't rise unassisted from the Ancient chair. He hadn't felt Teal'c's hands lift him, hadn't known that he'd been placed in the stasis pod. The one bit of self that remained was the ability to direct a look—a single look—

He'd wanted to tell her to go on. That it was okay. He'd needed to tell her that he wanted her to be happy—wanted them all to be happy. His death or life wasn't worth anything if it didn't facilitate some positive benefit in the lives of his team members.

And in the end, his mind and mouth had formed the words, "Aveo amacus."

He recognized briefly that Daniel translated it as "Goodbye", but didn't have the energy to correct him. It meant so much more than that.

But he couldn't say any more—he could only look at her. A passing glance in the maelstrom of his mind.

And then the pod closed itself around him, blessing him with darkness and rest.


	6. Passing the Buck

Passing the Buck

Yep, he really knew how to save the day.

He'd perfected it at this point—the process had been refined to where he no longer even had to think about it. He could size up a situation and know just what tack to take to solve it. Dangers no longer loomed. Situations no longer needed to be averted. Evil no longer waited to be thwarted

Jack O'Neill was here!

_General_ Jack O'Neill.

Crap.

Jack sat on his porch, watching the shadows lengthen. He held a beer in his hand—a beer from a rapidly diminishing supply, he might add. He'd asked Daniel to pick him some Guinness up on the way over, and Daniel had brought a single six-pack along with the Chinese they'd shared over a game of chess. But then, what would you expect from a guy who gets buzzed on wine coolers?

He turned the cap to his current beer over in his fingers, pressing his fingers on the sharp crimped edges. He kind of liked the sensation—being able to feel it. He'd missed that in the pod.

Or he assumed he would have. He hadn't been conscious. It had been like the best nap of his life. Long, dark, quiet. Until they'd woken him up and asked him to save the day.

Again.

And then they'd gone and made him a General.

He still wasn't exactly sure how he felt about that one.

He sandwiched the bottle cap between his thumb and middle finger and took careful aim. The neighbor's cat was climbing on his bird feeder again. It wasn't fancy—nothing more than several traditional red plastic nectar feeders suspended by long hooks from a central pole. But his pole was a four by four of wood cemented into the ground. Perfect for the cats to climb.

He'd already lost three of the little beggars to this particular stupid cat this year.

The cat paused at the top of the feeder and licked his paw, then looked around hungrily for a hummingbird. Jack snapped his fingers sharply, sending the bottle cap whizzing the twenty-odd feet necessary to plunk the cat squarely on the head. The feline hissed, and scampered, yowling, into the night.

Yet another crisis averted. Boy, howdy. He was good.

He deserved another beer for that. But alas, when he reached down to his side, the bucket was empty. Curse Daniel and his girly metabolism.

He settled for crossing his ankles in front of him and watching as the night fell.

The night lay still around him—no sound except for the shushing of the trees and distant sounds of traffic on the nearest major road.

This is what he was supposed to crave, right? A man of his age and experience would naturally desire to sit on his own back patio of an evening, pleasantly woozy, and equally as pleasantly full of Ming's Happy Family Chicken and Dumplings.

After all, he'd had quite a time of it lately. Saved the world not once but several times—and not just this world, he might add. He'd saved Thor's homeworld too. He'd discovered the method necessary for destroying the Replicators, stopped Anubis from invading Earth in the form of one or all of Jack's own officers, and prevented an alien plant from overrunning the SGC. He'd successfully brokered a deal between the Amway delegates. (Or was it Amtrack? Enron? No, he was sure it was something like that, though.) Camel-ass had tried to trick him into blowing up Earth with a screwy ZPM, but O'Neill had seen through that one and had made a tricky switch. Daniel had disappeared for three months, and they'd gotten him back safe and sound. Sure, they had thrown that planet into civil war, but hey, nobody's perfect.

Colonel Carter (that still had a nice ring to it) and the others had been stranded in that underground laboratory for a while—but Jack had handled it rather nicely, he thought. Not a single Airman had returned home minus his head. That was a major triumph.

He'd almost resigned, but hadn't. O'Neill was more proud of that accomplishment than he was of any of the others.

Jack sighed and interlaced his fingers over his abdomen. His eyes drowsed shut, heavy with fatigue, comfort, and beer. He'd only been a General for a few months and already he needed a vacation.

How had Hammond done it for so long? That old man must have had gonads of trinium.

A sound nearby forced O'Neill to open his eyes. He turned his head only enough to see a figure coming around the corner.

"Jack?"

The voice was female. Not Carter—lighter. He squinted against the dark and was surprised to see Cassie. She crossed the patio, briefly bathed in the light spilling out from the arcadia door. He barely recognized her—dressed like the college student she was. She'd put streaks of blond in her reddish hair, and she'd started wearing pants that she knew he wouldn't approve of—pants that barely covered anything pertinent. And she'd taken to wearing two t shirts at a time, but they were so skin tight that nothing was left to the imagination. She may as well have been walking around bare-butt naked. He scowled at her.

"Doesn't your allowance cover the cost of _whole_ clothes? Or are you just buying them in pieces?"

"Jack." Cassie rolled her eyes at him. "Get over it. I'm not a kid anymore."

"You're what, thirty?"

"I'll be nineteen soon."

"In six months."

"Right. Soon."

"Yeah, well, I'm just surprised Carter lets you wear stuff like that."

"She's not my mom—and besides, you should see some of the stuff that she wears."

O'Neill had prided himself lately on the fact that he hadn't imagined anything remotely close to that in several months. His had been a mostly Carter-free imaginary life. He'd narrowed the scope of his existence down to only the things that mattered—planetary security, good base management, and keeping all the random scientists on base in order. It was just a case of mind over anti-matter. Great—now he was making science jokes.

Somewhere, God was laughing at him.

"She's an adult—she can wear whatever she likes."

Cassie plopped herself down on the top step leading off the deck into the yard and leaned back against the rail post.

"I'm an adult, too."

"According to whom?"

"The State of Colorado and the Federal Government."

O'Neill snorted. "None of _them_ are adults, so what the hell do they know?"

Cassie smiled. "Wow. You're in a mood."

"It was fine until you showed up wearing half an outfit."

Cassie gave him half a laugh.

"So what brings you here this evening?"

Cassie rolled her eyes again. "The usual."

Jack understood immediately. "Pete."

"I just don't see why Sam likes him so much. He's such a schlong."

That took him back for a second. "Did you just call him a schlong?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what it means?"

"I'm not a complete idiot." Cassie ran a hand angrily through her multi-toned hair. "Duh."

Jack sobered up a bit. "Did you just 'duh' me?" He scowled and shook his head slightly. What had happened to the nice girl he used to know? But then he remembered—she'd lost as much as he had. More. "Cassie?"

But the young woman on his porch didn't answer. Her bottom lip pouted out stubbornly as she twisted a strand of hair between her fingers.

Jack sat up and leaned forward on his knees. "So what's going on with Pete and Carter?"

"Are you interested? Last time I tried to tell you, you put your fingers in your ears and started singing the Simpson's theme song."

The General shrugged. "Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do."

She grinned. "I know." She adjusted her shirt so that it covered her abdomen and then sat up straight, crossing her arms in front of her. "Um—they're just at the house right now. He cooked. Something lame—spaghetti, out of a jar. Sam was cleaning up from dinner and he came in and tried to talk to me about school."

"That doesn't sound so bad." He knew he was treading on thin ice, here, but there wasn't much to be done about that. He'd made a conscious decision to support Carter in getting on with her life. And if that meant taking Pete's side every once in a while, so be it. "I mean, he's just trying to be nice."

"He's a shrub."

"What kinds of things was he saying?"

Cassie's fingers flew back into her hair and started twisting again.

"Cass."

"Okay. Okay—I'll tell you." She looked up at him. "You know how I want to be a doctor? You know—like my mom."

"Yeah. I think you'd be great at it."

"Well, he told me that I might want to rethink that—because I'm not too great at biology."

"What are you talking about? You got great grades in high school."

She fell silent, her fingers twirling even faster. Jack thought she might actually tie the strand into a knot. He rose from his chair and lowered himself to the step next to her. Cassie looked up at him through her eyelashes. "I'm not doing too well in school right now. College is harder—and I had help in high school. Both Sam and my mom were there if I needed them."

Jack absorbed that briefly before holding his arm out to her. She immediately scooted over and settled in next to him, draping his arm around her like a blanket.

"But now it's just Carter and she's away a lot." He knew how to miss her, too.

"Yeah."

"Would it help if you lived on campus? Closer to tutoring centers and the library?"

Cassie waited for a long time before answering him. "It would be easier if I could live here. With you."

His life just got infinitely more complicated. He swallowed.

"Jack—I would help out with the cleaning and cooking, and you have the whole basement that's finished out with that bedroom down there and the bathroom, and so you'd never have to see me if you didn't want to. And I have my own car—well, it's my mom's car, but I just kept it after she—went. And you're not off world as much anymore—and you aren't with anyone, so it wouldn't be awkward like it is with Pete."

"So basically, you're saying that you want to stay with me because I'm lonely and messy?"

"That's not what I meant."

Jack gave her a one-armed hug and pressed a fatherly kiss to the side of her head. "I know, kiddo—let me talk to Carter about it."

"So you're saying I can?"

"I'm saying I need to talk to Carter."

Cassie stilled. "She won't like it."

"I'm guessing you're right."

Companionably, they sat in the darkness. Crickets and cicadas started singing in the bushes around the house, drowning out the noise of the thoroughfare traffic.

Cassie sighed, borrowing closer. Jack looked down at her, smiling inwardly.

How had he gotten so lucky to have been a part in this child's life? Not a child anymore—Cassie had grown up in the seven or so years since they had found her in the devastated environment of her home world and brought her back to Earth. He sometimes forgot that she was still somewhere in that hinterland that existed between childhood and adulthood—when kids wanted to be left alone to live their lives, yet at the same time craved unconditional love and support as they made their mistakes and celebrated their triumphs.

He couldn't have loved her more had she been his own—that part was easy. It was the rest of it that would plague him.

"Jack?"

O'Neill looked down at her. "Yeah?"

"Did you know she has nightmares?"

"Who, Carter?"

"Yeah—I heard her screaming one night and went in and found her huddled in the corner of her room. She was all sweaty and she'd been crying, and she was yelling something about a fifth—"

"Fifth."

"You know—like liquor."

"I think she was talking about something else." He _knew_ she was—he hadn't been conscious for it, but had read the mission report where she'd written up her experience with the human-form replicator. He'd found her afterward on Orilla, and she'd made it out to be no big deal. Obviously, she'd lied.

"Well, anyway, she told me it was just a bad dream, but now she sleeps with her door locked and a white noise machine on."

"She thinks you can't hear her?"

Cassie nodded.

"How often is it bad?"

"A few times a week."

And then he asked the question he didn't want to ask. "What about when Pete's there?"

Cassie had started playing with his fingers. "She doesn't let him stay the whole night when I'm home. Thanks heaven for small favors."

He didn't answer, just watched as she picked at a hang nail on his right index finger.

"You know, if I stayed here, I could give you manicures—you'd have much healthier cuticles if you let me massage in some sun oil."

"No."

"Too girly?"

"Ya think?"

Another long silence passed before Cassie broke it again. "I really want this, Jack."

"I know."

"He doesn't make her happy—not like he should."

"That's her business, Cass. She's got her own life to lead."

"I'm just surprised that you're okay with it."

He wasn't, he knew. To say he was okay with it all would be an overstatement of fact like none other in the history of the world. But he'd made a few breakthroughs lately—knowing that the relationship had to stay in its current, platonic, form, and knowing that other things took precedence over him and his libido—like keeping the world safe.

O'Neill wasn't perfectly sure what was making it easier these days. He'd gone and chatted with Doc Poly a few times since his triumphant return—but it wasn't totally her help that had aided him in turning the corner.

He could remember smidgens of his experience with the device. He'd led Daniel to believe differently, of course. Only because if he admitted that he remembered a bit of it, then Daniel would be convinced that he could remember it all. So he saved the biggest breakthroughs for himself.

He remembered how he'd felt when he'd seen himself through Carter's eyes—there in the engine room. He'd seen someone of worth—and he'd never considered himself in that way before. He'd understood himself better in an instant—known himself better in the sheer miracle of another's perspective.

For some reason, it wasn't possible to feel sorry for yourself when you could see how very much you meant to other people.

And now Cassie was proving it again. She trusted him completely—knew that he would never do anything to hurt her. Gave him the opportunity to do something good. Be something good.

"So you'll talk to her?" Her voice drew him out of his own thoughts.

"Tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"Yep."

Cassie turned a smile towards him. "Thanks, Jack."

"You're welcome, Cass."

Another brief silence passed.

"So, I guess you'll only need half a dresser. Half a closet."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know—for those halves of clothes that you wear."

"Holy Hannah, Jack, you're so lame."

But they both smiled into the darkness.

"I love you too, kid."


	7. Passing Blow

Passing Blow

Jack let up on the gas as soon as he saw her on the jogging path. The morning sun winked off the gold in her hair as she ran—giving her what appeared to be a halo. She was more tanned than he'd remembered—her tank top and shorts displayed that fact quite clearly.

He tried not to notice.

He failed in a huge way.

His truck coasted to a stop at the curb, but he selfishly waited a few more long seconds before turning it off and removing the key.

If anyone asked, he was just a guy out enjoying the scenery on a beautiful Colorado Springs morning.

Nobody had to know that the scenery he was enjoying happened to be wearing a hot pink tank top.

Under the terms of their normal relationship, he rarely saw so very _much_ of her—they both typically dressed from neck to feet in BDUs. Lately she'd started wearing this black tank top at work that displayed her arms and shoulders and completely caught him off guard whenever he saw her. He'd started avoiding places where she regularly showed up. He didn't need that kind of distraction—his job was hard enough already.

And he'd been doing so well lately at not thinking about her at all. Much.

He had a feeling this little scoping session was going to totally screw that all up—but—

_Yowza_.

With a long suffering sigh, the General opened his truck door and climbed out. He had a conversation to have—one that he'd already put off too long. He'd promised Cassie "tomorrow", and that had been nearly a week ago.

Not that Cassandra had waited for anything—his basement had turned into girltown faster than mold grew after the creek crested. He'd been coming home from work recently to find Cassie sprawled on his couch, reading from one text book or another, while something tasty cooked in the oven or bubbled on the stove. Who'd have guessed such domesticity lurked behind the barely-there hiphuggers? And who would have guessed she'd be so creative in her excuses for not coming back home—late study session, late movie, late chess game—their little munchkin had turned into a smooth tongued raconteur. Thank you very much, Word of the Day calendar. That had been Daniel's birthday offering.

He'd tried to talk to her on several occasions, but Teal'c, of all people, had gummed up the works. First he'd gotten himself stuck in this video game that they were testing down in Dr. Lee's Dungeon, and then he'd decided that he really needed to move out of the SGC and into a place of his own.

Jack had cosigned on the apartment for him—given that the only credit Teal'c had was his account at the Home Shopping Network—but they gave payment options to anyone with a phone and a pulse. He'd gotten a George Foreman Grill for Teal'c for that same birthday. But it had taken some careful maneuvering to get the government to create an identity for the Jaffa—complete with a driver's license and a Social Security Number. It still wasn't enough for the credit bureaus, though—so Jack had been called upon to sign his John Hancock so that Teal'c could be a 'real boy'.

So he'd spent the weekend split between Ikea and the business end of a U-Haul. Teal'c had been surprisingly easy to move—the hardest part having been packing up the candles. Seriously, how many candles did one Jaffa need? If he'd melted them all down, he could have waxed the mustaches from an East German women's swim team.

So, Teal'c had been saved from the game by Daniel (who woulda guessed he had it in him?), and Jack's own keyring now sported a brand new spare to Teal'c's apartment.

Crises averted. Which brought him to the park. To this jogging path.

He sauntered to the edge of the grass, stopped at a wide curve, and waited. The Colonel came within a hundred feet before she noticed him and slowed, then stopped. Breathing hard, she pulled out one of the tiny ear plugs attached to her IPod and let it dangle as she swiped at her forehead and ran a hand through her hair. He didn't know whether he should be relieved that she cared about her appearance around him, or annoyed that she didn't trust him to understand that she'd been running and would be, therefore, sweaty.

He opted for the former.

He watched as she steeled herself and moved towards him.

When she got close enough, he held up a hand in greeting.

"What are you doing here, sir?" She spoke without preamble, a frown furrowing her forehead.

"Hello to you, too, Colonel."

She stopped frowning, at least. "Okay. Hello."

"How was the run?"

"Fine."

"Still need to cool down." He knew her systematic approach to her workout.

"Yeah. I do, sir."

"Well, then," he motioned towards the continuing path with his hand. "Let's walk."

It was comfortable walking next to her. After several months of watching her head off through the 'Gate without him, he'd almost forgotten how well they travelled together. And he knew it was stupid to think about it in that way—but it was true. Some people naturally moved together better than others. He was tall, so his natural stride ate up a lot of ground. Some women took little mincing steps, and he'd never figured out how to adjust to that. It made talking while walking tough.

But Sam had really, really long legs. Long, toned, tan legs—muscular without being bulky—lean—and he'd mentioned long, right?

So when she walked, her stride matched his. He'd always appreciated that. She'd never expected him to hold back. In that one thing, at least.

He caught her look sideways at him, and he took a deep breath.

"So, is there something specific that you needed, sir?"

This time it was his turn to glance sideways. She yanked the other ear bud out of her ear and wadded the teeny wires into a teeny bundle to shove into a pocket inside the waistband of her jogging shorts. He'd never in his life desired to be an ear bud—but apparently there were advantages.

He had to shake himself back to the present.

"It's about Cassie."

Sam didn't say anything.

"She's been staying at my house for a few days."

"She says she's been studying late."

"Yeah." O'Neill nodded. "But it's a little more than that."

"What?"

"She wants to come and live with me."

Sam didn't answer, but her forehead furrowed again.

"Just for a little while—she says that you're not home very much, anyway, and she gets bored."

Sam snorted. Very indelicately.

"Not bored?" O'Neill queried.

"She butts heads with Pete." Carter stated flatly. "She's had quite the little attitude about it lately, too."

"I noticed."

"So she went to your house the other night."

"Spaghetti night. Apparently there was some sort of ruckus with—him. Uh, with—uh—Shanahan."

Carter looked at him sideways at his stutter. He could feel the tips of his ears turn red. He'd been trying to be so blasé about it all—but, as usual, he'd screwed it up.

At least she had the grace—or the shame—not to mention it. Instead, she picked back where he'd left it.

"I wondered where she'd gone. But she's over eighteen—I don't have the right to tell her where to go or what to do."

"That goes both ways."

"How so?"

"She doesn't have the right to tell you what to do." O'Neill spoke without looking directly at Carter. "Or who to do it with."

Sam stopped walking. They had traveled through the main part of the park and now stood in a forested area. The jogging path stretched out in front of them and trailed behind them, empty but for the two of them. The trees gathered around them, giving them a sense of intimacy.

"She doesn't like him."

"I'd guessed that."

Sam looked down at her feet. "I thought that when she got to know him, he'd grow on her."

O'Neill stood quietly. To be honest, he had to back Cassie on that one. Pete hadn't grown on him, either. But he wouldn't have said that out loud at this moment for every ZPM in the universe. It might have made Sam sadder, and that was something he just wasn't capable of doing on purpose.

Or it might have pissed her off, and then she'd have kicked his butt. That option didn't appeal, either.

"Maybe she just needs some space. So she stays with me for a while and gets her grades back on track and then we'll figure it out from there."

Sam's head snapped up. "Her grades? What's wrong with her grades?"

Jack let out a breath and then sucked in air through his teeth. Whoops. Obviously this part had been a surprise. "Cassie's failing Biology and Spanish. Her other grades aren't wonderful, either. She was embarrassed to tell you."

She looked as if he'd kicked her puppy. Her face fell, and she closed her eyes briefly before fixing her gaze steadfastly on her shoes. She just—wilted.

For the briefest of moments, before he regained control over his body and his senses, Jack moved forward to pull her into himself, but he knew that would be straying into other paths, other problems. Instead, he thrust his hands into his pockets and balled his fists, and waited.

A jogger approached them from the park side of the path, and Jack moved aside to let her pass.

Still, Sam stood silent. She didn't lift her head, but swiped at her eyes once or twice before Jack spoke again.

"Carter?"

"I'm failing her."

"No, you're not." His voice was more forceful than he'd meant it to be. "She's a big girl and needs to take responsibility for her actions. My guess is that a lot of this has to do with the fact that she's more interested in shopping than in school right now."

"But I brought her home after Janet died—I took responsibility for her, and now I'm driving her away."

"How are you driving her away?"

"My relationship with Pete."

"Oh, well, I'd say that's a little bit her fault, too."

Carter raised her brows in a perfect imitation of "Querulous Daniel". Jack had to stop himself from smiling.

"She's jealous." He explained, shrugging. "Simple as that."

"Jealous." Sam stated, blatantly unbelieving.

"She's just lost someone important to her and here you are finding someone important to you. And didn't you tell me a few weeks ago that she and Dominic had split up?"

"He went to college back East. Turns out long distance relationships are more difficult than he'd expected."

"There. You see? Jealous."

She cocked her head to one side. "You might be right."

"_Might_ be?" He tried to look innocent. "Carter, I'm a General now. We're _required_ to be right. It's a mandate."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Yes, sir."

"So give her some time and space, and my guess is she'll get tired of living with this old coot here," he indicated himself with a flourish, "and want to come back home."

"I don't see her instantly warming up to Pete."

"Yes, well. We all can't be perfect." It came out before he'd had a chance to hear it in his mind. Darnit.

But she didn't seem to catch what he'd said, having jumped onto another topic.

"Cassie is really failing Biology?"

"Yep. I've seen the evidence."

"I mean, how do you fail Biology? Who fails Biology?"

"It's easier than you'd think." O'Neill pointed out casually. Biology had been nowhere near as interesting as Grammar. Not that he'd admit that out loud, to anyone, ever.

"Oh—yeah. Sorry, sir." Carter smiled, chagrined. She indicated the path with a move of her hand. "Walk?"

"Sure." They set off again.

"So, you'll keep after her to do her homework?"

"Yes. And you'll be available when you can for tutoring?"

Sam grinned. "Why does it feel like we're divorced parents working out custody?"

Jack had no answer for that but slight smile.

"And she won't have to deal with Pete."

"She'll come around, Carter."

Sam grimaced. "Sure. Eventually."

They walked in companionable silence for several minutes until Sam spoke again.

"What if she's right?"

"About?"

"Pete."

O'Neill stopped in his tracks. "What are you talking about this time?"

Carter halted just in front of him and turned to face him. "What if all of you are right about him? I mean, _you_ don't like him."

"If he makes you happy, Carter, then continue on. If he's what you want, then go for it. It really doesn't matter what anyone else thinks." O'Neill just didn't like Pete on principle. It had nothing to do with his actual personality.

"Yes, it does, sir." She was insistent. "You four are—well, you're the closest thing I've got to family around here. I trust your opinion, and your opinion of Pete isn't high."

O'Neill shrugged noncommittally—a shrug that didn't fool a single soul.

"Daniel said that he seemed too good to be true."

"Coming from Daniel, that's—"

"A load, is what it is." More to herself than to him, she chewed on her top lip for a beat. "Daniel doesn't think Pete trusts me—he doesn't like the whole background check thing. And Teal'c thinks that Pete will want me to give up the SGC and stay at home like June Cleaver."

This conversation was one that O'Neill had prayed would never, ever happen, and yet here it was. Happening. But no Ha'tak cruised over the horizon to blast him out of it, and the Asgard had been notoriously absent lately, so Jack figured he'd have to get out of it on his own.

He hated that.

He opted to wait and see where she was going with the topic.

"I mean, maybe you and Daniel and Teal'c and Cassie are all right about it."

"I don't—" He tried to deny it, but she cut him off.

"I'm so delusional." She spoke to nobody in particular, looking off deep into the forest. "As if I could ever have a normal relationship."

Just then, a high school track team flooded through the forest. They ran three and four abreast—too many of them on the little path—and too quickly to stop in time to keep from running over the General and Carter.

Without thinking, he reached out and pulled her off the path and out of the way, slamming into a tree and taking her with him. She landed full body against him, both hands braced against his chest, her legs straddling one of his. The impact stunned both of them—the shock of the landing sent a jolt through both of them, but the instantaneous physical response their contact provoked was overwhelming.

They didn't hear the team's airy "Sorry!" nor the thundering of the running shoes as the team wended their way deeper into the woods. They didn't hear the birds anymore, or the traffic so close yet so far on the streets alongside the park. They didn't hear anything but the sudden rush of something incoherent drowning their senses. Something so long suppressed and so long denied that they nearly didn't recognize the sensation when it overwhelmed them.

She moved first, both hands up to the sides of his face, thumbs tracing the outlines of his lips.

He obligingly parted them, his hands moving from where they'd landed on her shoulder blades down to the small of her back, tightening her into him. And when she drew his head down to her, he heeded the small sigh in the back of her throat as if he were Odysseus and she one of the fabled sirens. His only thought was to silence the sigh with one of his own.

She tasted like life itself—too precious to be squandered. She felt like home—perfect, comfortable, and right. Losing himself in her was the sweetest thing he'd ever felt in his life.

A laugh brought them back to reality—a couple walking a toddler in a stroller. The child giggled at a squirrel.

Sam jerked herself to the present, her blue eyes widening with dismay. She pulled herself away from him, her breathing erratic, shaking slightly.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I'm sorry. That was—" But she couldn't complete the sentence, instead hurtling herself back down the path and away from him, the echo of her footfalls blasting apart every single defense he'd so carefully constructed.

And several days later, when she could finally bring herself to show him the ring and ask what he would do if things were different, he answered her as if he wasn't breaking in pieces, as if that kiss in the woods hadn't meant everything to him. As if she was just another soldier under his charge and he weren't completely, irrevocably, in love with her.

As if his world were not crumbling. As if he actually could envision a future with her as another man's wife.

As if. As if. As if.

And he yearned for the dark oblivion of unconsciousness. But he didn't tell her that.

"What about you?" She asked, "If things had been different—"

He merely said, "I wouldn't be here."

As if she'd understand what he meant.

As if.


	8. Passing Through

Passing Through

So, Denial was a nice place to live, he decided.

Temperate. Some might even say balmy.

Nice folks too. Many people lived part time in Denial—some just passed through. Daniel visited frequently.

Jack had taken up permanent residence.

If Denial had subdivisions, his would be a gated community with a lake. Big trees, and maybe a golf course for the views. Shopping would be convenient, yet not too visible. Fishing would be pleasant—not too many fish that he actually caught something, yet enough that it still might be a possibility.

Nice. Balmy. Unpretentious. Calm.

----OOOOOOO----

He didn't really want to live in the real world. Amidst chaos. In that world where she was engaged to someone else.

_She'd said yes to the shrub._

Even now he couldn't quite believe it. Just when he thought he could salvage a shred of his dignity out of the ruins of his broken soul, he would see her, and he'd remember.

She'd given Jack an opportunity. After her frantic retreat on the jogging path, she'd recouped and asked him what he wanted.

"_What about you?" She'd asked, "If things had been different—"_

And he'd looked at her and been unable to offer her anything that was worth giving. He'd never truly functioned well in the real world. His entire adult life had been spent in the shadows. And in those shadows, he'd performed acts of which he could not feel proud. Necessary things—designed to keep good people safe, but acts of such savage efficiency that they _should_ have shocked her out of whatever admiration she felt for him.

He lived a life of lies and darkness.

She belonged in a world of trust and light.

And no matter what delusions she had about him—regardless of what she saw in him, he knew what he was, and he wondered how she could accept him. Eventually, it would occur to her that he was damaged—broken beyond repair—and she would regret choosing him, wouldn't she? So he'd given her what she'd been looking for—absolution. He'd given her the out that she was looking for—a reason to accept the perfectly normal, perfectly common relationship that Pete offered.

In essence, Jack had told her he didn't want her.

"I wouldn't be here." He'd said. He thought he'd smiled.

----OOOOOOO----

And that's when his imaginary moving truck had taken him away from it all and delivered him safely into Denial.

It probably should have been big burly guys in white coats delivering him to the loony bin, but he didn't want to over-do it. Everyone knew how he hated clichés.

Denial was working for him. He'd even shared the joy of it with Teal'c over a friendly game of ping pong. Humming loudly while your fingers were in your ears _did_ solve a whole slew of problems. You couldn't hear information that would totally screw up your day. Like this morning when he'd overheard Carter telling Daniel that they'd set the wedding date. Sure, it had taken thirty or so verses of the Simpsons song, but eventually his terror had died down to a point where it had been almost manageable. At least he no longer felt like throwing up.

Not throwing up was good.

Although, he thought he would have had a great excuse for spewing—the place smelled like something foul—chickens, he recognized. Fowl—foul. Funny. And horses, and a few goats. His base currently resembled Old MacDonald's farm.

Yeah—let a woman—or a couple hundred of them—move in, and they totally took over the place. He wouldn't be surprised to open his locker and find that they'd put feminine products in there.

Although how he would even recognize a woman's stuff lately, he didn't know. It had been a long time since he'd found frilly things hanging to dry over the shower curtain rod in his bathroom.

Having said that, he didn't think the Hak'tyl did frilly. More likely it would be chain mail and leather—which would be sexy, too.

It had been way, _way_ too long.

Denial. Denial. Denial. Denial.

----OOOOOOO----

In Denial, he could talk to her as if nothing were wrong. He'd even touched her yesterday in a fit of pique—in the hall, he'd grabbed her shoulders and begged her to find a new home world for the Hak'tyl women and their livestock. In Denial, the touch was nothing more than a friendly thing. Like a fist bump, or a handshake.

The casual contact certainly hadn't been the cause of his dream last night that had woken him up, sweating and shaking, as if he were thirteen and had seen his first nudie mag. He thanked the heavens above that he hadn't been off world.

Denial. Denial. Denial. Denial.

In this lovely new community, he had only friendly, commanding officer-subordinate thoughts about her. He could even catch her eye from time to time without remembering how her eyes had closed half way as she'd sighed at his touch—as her tongue had tasted the corner of his mouth.

And he'd found that in Denial, the ache was bearable. The sting of seeing her every day—of catching sight of her leaving the commissary or seating herself in the briefing room didn't hurt like it would have in the real world. Passing by her in the hall and being encompassed briefly by her scent didn't smart, either, and watching her report about various activities wasn't bittersweet.

Sending her off to parts unknown didn't fill him with concern, either. It had been so easy to send her last week to deal with the Colson fiasco—quite frankly, not having her around every corner had been something of a relief. He hadn't had to worry about meeting her in the commissary, or the briefing room, or the halls. He hadn't missed her—not at all.

Not even when he'd quietly let himself into her lab late one night. There in the dark, with Sam all around him, he'd found it easy to sit at her desk and think. But not about her. In Denial she wasn't in his thoughts at all.

And when Rya'c and Kar'yn had finally figured things out and gotten hitched, she'd stood next to him, and smiled, and clapped, and sighed, and it hadn't torn all the wounds open again.

In Denial, she wasn't that important to him.

In Denial, it didn't hurt anymore.

----OOOOOOO----

Eventually, the last of the Hak'tyl women made their way through the 'Gate to their new planet, and the SGC returned back to a semblance of normal. Jack glanced at his watch and muttered under his breath.

He was going to be late.

He hurriedly locked away some of the files he'd been working with—intel about the Trust never failed to completely screw up his day.

Throwing his jacket over his arm, he rounded his desk and headed for the door. He turned off the lights with his elbow, and exited, catching the door with his toe and closing it behind him.

Walter caught up with him on the way to the elevator. "Sir!"

"What?" O'Neill hated being late.

"Colonel Carter was looking for you."

"What did she want?"

"I don't know, sir, she just asked me to ask you to drop by her lab on your way out."

"Why?"

Walters pushed his little round glasses up on his little round nose. He'd always reminded Jack of a Weeble. "I don't know, sir. She just asked me to tell you. That's all."

O'Neill paused, then looked at his watch. It still felt weird to just be able to look at his watch without flipping back the cover first. Half the time he still reached for the little Velcro flap. He'd been able to start wearing a normal watch when he'd been made General. The cover on his combat watch had been functional—it had prevented the crystal's reflection from giving away his position. It didn't matter on base. Everyone knew where he was, anyway. No stealth necessary.

The watch told him he was going to be late.

"You working the overnight, Walter?" He said as he started walking toward the elevator again.

"Yes sir." Walter hurried after him—a Chihuahua following the German Shepherd.

O'Neill nodded. "Good. Watch the 'Gate well. Make sure it doesn't go anywhere."

The airman looked at the General as if he were nuts. "Yes sir."

Jack nodded over his shoulder. "'Night."

"Goodnight, sir."

Jack entered the elevator and hesitated only briefly before pushing the correct number. He guessed he had a few minutes.

She was positioned at the table in her lab, doing scientific things. Something apparently fascinated her—she sat hunched over her microscope, jotting down random notes on a yellow legal pad without looking. She was the only person he'd ever know who could do that. He knew from experience that her notes would be neat, too. No misspelling or wrong spacing anywhere. Of course, that didn't impress him—in Denial, such things were ordinary.

He didn't pause for a moment just to look at her before clearing his throat. Really—that was just coincidence.

She turned and smiled in that way she'd been smiling lately—a little sad, a little guilt. "Thanks for coming down here, sir. I realize that you must have things to do tonight."

"Yes, well." He didn't elaborate.

She looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well, sir, I just wanted to give you something—but I didn't want to give it to you down there." Her lab made up a part of Level 19, but the General's office was on Level 27.

The implication was that she'd wanted privacy.

"Oh?"

She reached under a book on her table and retrieved an envelope. Hesitating, never quite meeting his eye, she bit her bottom lip and held it out. "Here. It's an invitation to the engagement party."

Jack stared at it as if were both on fire and poisonous.

He briefly considered asking which engagement party that would be, but decided against it. He'd made the decision. He wasn't going to make this any harder for her.

"I'll understand if you don't want to come, but I invited everyone else, and I didn't want you to feel—" Her voice trailed off weakly.

"Different?"

"Left out."

"Yes, well there are some delights of which a little is too much." He reached out and took the envelope between his thumb and index finger. He didn't look at it.

"I think Cassie is coming."

"Good."

"And Daniel and Teal'c will be there."

"Hail hail."

She finally looked him full in the eye. "What?"

"The gang's all here. Hail hail, the gang's all here."

She shook her head. "I've never heard that phrase before."

"It's a song."

"Oh." The level of awkward hit its zenith. She waved a hand lamely at her microscope—he supposed that meant that she needed to get back to work. "Well, thanks again, sir."

He gave half a smile and nodded. "Goodnight, Carter."

----OOOOOOO----

In the end he didn't go. His truck somehow found his way home instead. Cassie was out somewhere, so he pulled a beer out of the fridge and climbed the steps up to where his telescope sat on the platform he'd built.

But he didn't uncover it. Instead, he just sat next to it in the camping chair and popped his beer open. He snapped the cap over the rail and watched it wink in the downstairs porch light as it fell into the grass of his backyard. Fleetingly he thought that it would suck to mow over it, and then remembered just how many caps he'd sent in just that manner into just that grass. Ouch. Good thing he had a lawn service.

He sighed and took a swig.

It didn't take him long to finish it. He wanted another one, but didn't feel like descending the steps—which was the reason he'd only brought one up. He'd been drinking too many lately. He didn't want to become dependent.

So he sat, companionable with the darkness. He may even have drowsed off for a time before a voice brought him to alert.

"Jack?"

Daniel.

Steps sounded on the wooden rungs of his rickety ladder, and a brown head popped up over the edge, glasses caught at moonlight. "You up here?"

"Whaddaya want?" When had he become this grouchy old man?

But Daniel would not be dissuaded.

Daniel got to the top of the stairs and stood, then moved around the telescope to stand in front of O'Neill.

"Where were you?"

"P3Q 766."

Daniel briefly attempted to make out the designation, and then frowned. "That's your license plate number."

"Yes. There I was."

"Are you drunk?"

"Nope. Not even buzzed."

"We waited for you for over an hour."

Jack squinted into the darkness. "I _am_ sorry about that. I just—_couldn't_." He was sincere.

Daniel sighed and sat, his back against the rail. "It's okay. You wouldn't have liked her anyway."

"Oh?"

"She giggled a lot. And she talked a lot about how terrified she was of guns."

"What brought that up?"

Daniel opened his jacket to reveal his t shirt. It was one that Jack had given him for Christmas a few years before. It had an image of two snowmen on it, one with its little twig arms raised, and the other holding up a hair dryer. Even the pacifist in Daniel thought it was funny. Cynthia McVeigh hadn't thought so at all.

"You're right. Probably wouldn't have worked." O'Neill, still holding the empty bottle, stuck his thumb into the opening and pulled it out quickly, creating a loud 'blump' sound.

"Anyway, I made up some excuse for you, we finished our drinks, and she and Karen left."

O'Neill looked quizzical.

"Karen," Daniel prompted. "You know, from accounting. She mentioned to me that her friend Cynthia thought you were cute—"

"Cute." Jack interrupted. His thumb came out more quickly this time, making a louder 'blump'. "You said she thought I was hot."

"What's the difference?"

"Cute is for puppies and little kids. Generals aren't allowed to be cute." And he should know, he was a General, after all. "It's military code that Generals be hot."

"Oh. Well. She was interested in you. Who knows? She might have been easy, regardless of her anti-NRA politics."

Jack stared into the darkness, listening to the night. "I'm not really into quickies these days, Daniel."

Silence fell between them for a little while. Daniel picked absently at the wood of the deck. Jack continued wedging his thumb in the bottle opening and pulling it out. Blump. Blump.

Jack heard Daniel take a deep breath. "So." He paused for effect. "Where were you?"

With his free hand, the General reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the envelope. "Carter gave me this as I was leaving tonight."

Daniel knew what it was the minute he saw it. He didn't need to open it. "The invitation."

"Are you going?"

"Yeah—I told her I would."

"And so it kind of killed my groove."

"I can understand that." Daniel repositioned himself on the deck. His butt hurt. "Would it kill you to put another chair up here?"

"Yes." Jack answered simply. He held the envelope loosely in his fingers.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?"

"Communing with nature."

"Pondering the state of the universe?"

"Oh, I'm in a rare position where I know the state of the universe." O'Neill sighed and sunk lower in his chair. His thumb popped out again. Blump. He swung the envelope in his other hand, between his thumb and index finger. "No pondering required."

"So what do you think about up here?"

"The Goa'uld."

"What about 'em?" Daniel sounded slightly suspicious.

O'Neill stilled his thumb, then shot out, "Boxers of briefs?"

"Briefs." Daniel answered immediately. "Has to be briefs."

"Why?"

"They probably don't want to dangle too much—especially when they're wearing those little dresses that they sometimes wear."

Jack paused and then laughed—a short burst, but the first time he'd done anything like it in months. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Nothing—I was driving."

"Dangle?" He grinned widely. "You've actually thought about Goa'ulds dangling?"

"It's not that funny, Jack." Daniel sounded slightly annoyed.

But Jack snorted again, giving into a silent sort of laughter that shook his whole body without making any noise.

"Really. You asked the question, Jack. It's not that funny."

"Yes, it is." But then he betrayed his words by falling still. Suddenly, O'Neill dropped the bottle with a loud 'thunk' onto the deck beside him and stood abruptly. Still with a smile on his face, he gripped the corner of the envelope tightly between his fingers, reared back, and flung it off into the darkness.

It sailed into the night, turning corner over corner, the moon and stars reflecting on its whiteness before it disappeared into the trees just beyond O'Neill's yard.

Daniel watched it go through the railing over his shoulder, heard the leafy 'piff' as it landed in the woods.

"Trust me, Daniel, it was funny." He leaned over and picked the bottle back up. "You ready to go in?"

"Sure." Daniel stood and followed Jack to the steps. He waited until Jack had descended before following.

"You hungry?" Jack walked around to where the arcadia door sat open off the porch.

"Yeah." Daniel sounded surprised that he actually was.

"I'll order Chinese."

Daniel watched as Jack picked up the phone and dialed.

"You know, you're going to have to go and get that eventually."

"I'll do it in the morning."

"What if it rains?"

"Then it will get wet."

"Are you going to go?"

Jack muttered into the phone as he got put on hold.

"Yes, Daniel, I'll go." He glanced up and caught Daniel's eye. "I'll put on my big boy pants."

The younger man grinned. "You do that."

"And I'll be sure to wear my best briefs." O'Neill waggled his eyebrows. "Wouldn't want any untoward dangling."

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

The General grinned again. "Nope."

----OOOOOOO----

And later, after Daniel had left, Jack reached for a flashlight and made his way through his beer cap infested back yard into the woods beyond. It only took him a few minutes to find it. The envelope had fallen into a shrub and stuck there. O'Neill stared at it for a moment, then grabbed it and roughly tore it open.

He perused it briefly in the light of his flashlight. Time, place, who, what, when all printed off of some computer—but there, scrawled along the bottom in that perfect script of hers, Carter had written a personal note.

"It would mean a lot." She'd penned. "Please come."

And he'd known he would. Because even in Denial, sometimes you just did the right thing.


	9. Passing Fancy

Again I find myself just wanting to thank you all for your attentions to this story, and for your reviews. I'm an unapologetic Sam/Jack shipper (could you tell?), but this stretch of episodic time has always bothered me. I have to settle all this in my own mind, and I appreciate you all coming along for the ride. I'm always open to reviews, so feel free to click on the little button. I do try to maintain canon, but that doesn't mean that there's stuff off screen that we don't see—right?

And thusly I justify the stories in my head. . .

Passing Fancy

"They're going to have to reschedule." Jack stood in front of his locker, his khaki pants zipped but not buttoned, pulling on a white undershirt.

"I don't think so." Daniel had finished his shower first. But then, he didn't need to shave as frequently as O'Neill. Something to be said for being pre-pubescent.

"I do."

"I don't."

"I _do_." Jack ran his fingers through his hair and called it good. "They're going to have to postpone."

"No, they're not."

"Yes."

"No."

"Uh-_huh_."

"Uh-_uh_."

"Daniel—how are they going to have this bash? She just spent most of the day aboard a cargo ship, tied to a crate. Now she's going to get all dolled up for a party? Get real."

"Ah—but you're underestimating the symbiotic relationship that exists between women and their social events." Daniel had his locker door open, and was carefully parting his still-wet hair while looking at himself in a little mirror. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt and had on a tie without any cartoon characters adorning it. His black slacks had creases marching neatly down each leg, and his soft leather shoes gleamed with a fresh polish.

"Psshht." The General waved a hand—a hand that was currently only partway through a sleeve. The rest of the shirt flew around him, whacking at his back. "Carter's not like other chicks. She's going to reschedule."

"Bet you she doesn't."

"Daniel, she's all bruised up. Didn't you tell me that she had to fight—like—three guys?"

"With her hands tied behind her back." Daniel added proudly. "She kicked some major Trust butt." He combed one last time, turned his head from side to side, fingered in some gel, then spritzed on a little hair spray.

O'Neill stared at him, disgusted. As Daniel reached for cologne, Jack grunted.

"What?" Daniel asked, applying the liquid generously.

"Primp much?"

"I like to make a good impression."

"On who, The Village People?"

"So says the man who is planning on wearing that—" he gestured to the wildly colored Aloha shirt that still hung from only one of O'Neill's arms, "to an engagement party."

"What's wrong with this shirt?"

"It defines the popular phrase 'Fugly'."

Jack considered that for a minute while he pushed his other arm through the loose sleeve and started to button the shirt over his white undershirt. "Okay—I give up—Fugly?"

Daniel used the finger quotes this time. "F-ing ugly. Fugly."

"Oh, pshaw. It's a classic." Unzipping his pants, O'Neill tucked the shirt in, then re-zipped and adjusted his belt. "You can't go wrong with Hilo Hattie's."

Daniel hadn't given him the look in a while, but Jack was strangely comforted when the scientist dusted off his expression that clearly stated, "Jack, don't be an ass."

O'Neill grinned inwardly. Seeing the look made him feel a certain amount of relief. He supposed that it had something to do with the fact that Daniel had been incredibly supportive over the past few months—supportive to the point that he hadn't been nearly as judgmental, overbearing, and politically correct as he normally was. Daniel's looking down his spectacled nose at O'Neill showed that he felt Jack was progressing. Maybe the worst of this funk was over.

"Hilo who?" Daniel did a verbal double take.

"Hilo Hattie's. One of the most famous purveyors of Aloha shirts and Muu-muus in the beautiful islands of Hawai'i."

Daniel fastened on his watch, took a last look in the little locker-door mirror, must have been satisfied, and closed his door.

"Yes, well, it's not appropriate for the event. Nor for the locale."

"It's at O'Malley's, isn't it?"

"Didn't you read the invitation?" Exasperated, Daniel made certain the lock was secure before turning to face the General.

"Yes, I read the invitation." Jack put his hands into the pockets of his pants. He pursed his lips, then flattened them, then pursed them again before asking, "Not at O'Malley's?"

"The Broadmoor Resort." He picked up a suit coat from the bench next to him. Shaking any wrinkles out, he carefully draped it over his arm. "Dress jackets are required."

Jack looked down at himself. He looked perfectly acceptable, he thought. No camouflage in sight. But still. . .

"The Broadmoor, huh?" Okay, so that place _was_ pretty fancy.

"Resort, yes."

"Well, crap." Jack muttered. "What idiot chose to have it there?"

"Pete, I guess."

O'Neill grimaced deeply, and nodded. "Figures."

----OOOOOOO----

Even Teal'c was wearing a suit. Jack wondered if it had come from the Home Shopping Network as had Teal'c's Juicemaster. He'd chosen a black fedora for the evening, pulled down low to cover his First Prime tattoo.

Daniel had offered to drive, but Teal'c stubbornly refused to fold himself in half in order to fit into Daniel's Prius, so they took the General's Super Duty instead. After a quick detour at Jack's house so that he could change, they took Highway 115 north to the 29, and then turned west toward the resort.

Jack tossed his keys to the valet as they entered the golf course club house.

The room was large, and it felt larger because of the open patio doors and wide outer deck. Even so, the sheer quantity of people made it seem oppressive. Daniel made a line straight for where Carter stood with Pete. Jack let him go. He hated crowds like this, and even though he knew at least half of the people, he still suddenly felt uncomfortably alone.

Teal'c stopped next to him. "Are you feeling unwell, O'Neill?"

"Nah, T, just looking for a place to hide."

"You are comporting yourself as a coward, then."

Jack turned to face the Jaffa, scowling. "A coward?"

"You do not wish to face Colonel Carter and her chosen mate. I believe that makes you a coward." Teal'c's eyebrow rose until it nearly disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. He paused, redirecting his attention to the crowd. "At least in _these_ matters."

O'Neill huffed. "I can't believe you just said that, T. I thought we were pals."

"We are indeed friends, General O'Neill. I believe us to be as close as brothers. However, when you agreed to accompany Daniel Jackson and me to this event this evening, I assumed you had made your peace with Colonel Carter and her prospective husband." He started forward towards Sam and her fiancé. "Apparently, I assumed in error."

And with that, he made his way through the assembled throng.

Left alone, Jack scoped out the room. To his left, the patio doors led onto the open air deck. A pianist played a Steinway in a little cove to his right, and the open bar sat just beyond. Directly in front of him, the crowd waved and flowed around the couple of the hour. O'Neill looked longingly at the bar, but turned away instead. It would be a crutch, and he didn't like being propped up.

Jack debated for a few seconds, and then sighed. He _was_ a coward. For all of his advances lately, he still couldn't see himself happily congratulating them. He cast a long look in their direction. Pete stood on Sam's right, one arm possessively around her shoulders, his hand dangling casually, as if she were just another girl. That right there was enough for Jack to turn away.

Samantha Carter was the last woman in the world who deserved to be taken lightly.

He spied an empty table out of the corner of his eye and wended his way toward it. It sat at the edge of the action, right where the open patio doors folded back on themselves. He sat down, and then spent the next twenty minutes or so glaring at anyone who tried to join him. From his vantage point, he could see pretty much everywhere in the room and on the patio. And even though he cursed himself for his own weakness, he found himself watching her.

She wore a pretty dress—that was the first thing that was wrong. It was sage green, with these floaty little sleeves and a tie at the waist. It had _flowers_ on it. It made her look too young—and something else—Virginal? Pete had his arm around her shoulders, still, and was holding a domestic beer in the other hand. He was using it to gesture with. He was gesturing a lot. Jack guessed that it wasn't his first one of the evening.

Carter was smiling, chatting, engaging people, but underneath it, O'Neill could see strain on her face, fatigue in her eyes. At one point, Pete put too much weight on her, and she winced. She'd been hurt in all that Trust bashing, he realized. Deep down, something surged.

A waiter glided by, silently placing a goblet of water on his table. Jack looked up at him from underneath furrowed brows, and the server hastily beat an exit. Left alone again, he took a sip of water and then sat playing with the goblet, trying to quell the flood of protectiveness he had no right to feel.

"_I know! I keep telling her to not stand up so straight, but she's military, you know, so she's used to standing at ten-hut, or whatever they call it."_

"_She's such a pretty girl, but not terribly feminine, is she?"_

The voices were coming from over Jack's left shoulder, from just beyond the door onto the terrace. Two women, older women, were standing at the opening. He could just see their outlines in his peripheral vision.

"Well, what do you expect from military?" The first voice was higher pitched, and carried a trace of the South. "Nobody goes into the military thinking it's charm school."

"I'm surprised you're okay with this." This accent sounded more western—California, Jack would have guessed. "I certainly would have my doubts about a female soldier."

"Well, she did wear the dress that I picked out for her, so I guess there's hope there."

"And doesn't she look lovely? So sweet."

"Yes, like I said, she's pretty enough, but she walks like she's going into battle. And she doesn't talk very much. My Peter is so gregarious, and she's very shy. I just would have wished for more for him."

"Isn't she a scientist of some sort?"

"Something having to do with space and radar—she didn't say much about it." The voice carried a shrug—the implication that it didn't interest the speaker.

A waiter passed his table again, on his way out the door, and Jack could hear the tell tale clink of glasses being exchanged on the tray. The ladies were refueling.

"I can't imagine having the challenge that you're up against, Maureen."

"I know. Making her presentable before the wedding." A longsuffering sigh exploded forth from Southern Belle. "Peter has been taking on so much of the planning. She's been busy with her work—"

"Well that will have to change once they get married." California exclaimed.

"I don't think she's the housekeeping type. We went over to her house this afternoon when she wasn't there to drop off the dress, and the place was in disarray. I would have expected a military type to be more organized."

Jack seethed. This afternoon when she'd rushed back from Trust ship, the last thing on Carter's mind had been tidying up. She'd been trying to prevent the deaths of millions, attempting to return the 'Gate, and figuring out the Trust's plot having to do with symbiote poison and VX rockets. But of course she should have put out new potpourri beforehand. How careless of her. His seething turned to contempt.

"How did the two of them meet?"

"Her brother introduced them. You know that Peter had some trouble after high school. Mark Carter was one of those friends that helped him through. I suppose that Peter's being a police officer makes their relationship easier. He understands that type."

"But she _is_ pretty."

"Yes. There is that." Unconvinced. That's what the voice really said.

"At least you'll have beautiful grandchildren. Beautiful _tall_ grandchildren." They laughed together airily.

"Well, I should probably check on the caterering." Heels clipped against the deck flooring outside, and then padded on the carpeting inside. They passed right in front of Jack, who watched them go without moving his head. Pleased with themselves, dressed to the nines, they breezed through the crowd without noticing him. Not that they would approve of him, anyway.

He refocused his attention on Carter. Pete had moved away from her and was heading towards the bar again. Sam watched him go, and then bit her lip, glancing around the room. She smiled at a well wisher, and then searched the crowd again. Finally, her gaze found the General, at his solitary table. She peered over to the bar where Pete was chatting with the tender, then held up a hand in a brief wave to Jack. He waved back. She shrugged, indicating the crowd. He gave her a half hearted, two finger salute. And then Pete returned, and she looked away.

O'Neill stood abruptly and walked out of the room onto the terrace. The cooling night air had chased many of the guests back into the dining area, and Jack found himself a secluded spot at the edge of the terrace, outside the glow of the lights. The noise was dimmed a bit. He could breathe out here. He could hear his own thoughts. He could try to quell the urge to—what—grab her and take her away like a caveman? They'd done that already. It hadn't been fun.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Her voice startled him. He turned to see her standing in his section of shadow.

"It's your party."

She hesitated before throwing a look over her shoulder. She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. "I don't feel like it's really mine. I didn't plan any of it."

"I could have guessed that."

An awkward silence passed. "I should leave you alone. I'm intruding." She moved as if to leave.

"Carter."

"Yes, sir?"

"Stay." He indicated the nook he'd found. "I think that _anyone_ would want to escape that crowd."

"I suggested O'Malley's, but Mrs. Shanahan wouldn't hear of it."

"You call your future mother-in-law _Mrs. Shanahan_?"

Carter grinned. "She's kind of scary."

"I know. I heard."

Sam shivered involuntarily.

"You okay?" He watched as she hugged herself, rubbing at her exposed upper arms. "Cold?"

"A little. I had a different outfit planned—but then Pete's mother—" She lamely faded. "Then I wore this."

O'Neill shrugged off his suit coat and handed it to her. "Here."

"I couldn't sir—"

"Take it. That's an order."

Sam regarded it, her tired eyes clouded. "I'd prefer it not be an order, sir," she took a deep breath. "I would prefer it just be something nice that one friend would do for another."

O'Neill watched her closely. He couldn't read her well for once—he didn't know exactly how she was feeling other than cold, tired, and pressured. He figured that was enough. He didn't want to add to her load. "Then take it—one friend to another."

"So we're friends again?"

"We've never stopped being that, have we?" He tried to smile benignly. "Alternate universes aside."

She shrugged and cocked her head. "I've just felt something different from you lately. Like you don't want me around anymore. It must be a General thing."

"Take the damn coat, Sam."

She held out one elegant hand and took the jacket. Their fingers brushed, and Jack had to force back images of a certain jogging trail, a certain other moment of feeling. He watched as she put the coat on, wrapping it around her slim body, her fingertips barely peeping out of the sleeves.

"Holy Hannah." Sam closed her eyes and settled into the warmth. "That's nice."

Jack watched as she revived a little. She didn't like being cold—there had been more than one time off world when she'd snaked his jacket or an extra shirt from his pack. A few of those shirts he'd never seen again. Sometimes, he wondered exactly where they were.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

The night descended around them again. They tried not to look at each other, but failed. Finally, Carter met his eye. "I wouldn't be here."

"What?"

"'I wouldn't be here.' That's what you said. I got it right, didn't I? That you weren't interested in—_us_—any more?"

Jack's throat closed around any words he might have been able to say. He stared at her dumbly, hands in his pockets, perfectly still.

"Because I've been thinking that I misunderstood you. That's the only reason I can figure for how weird it's been. Between you and me."

"Carter, I—"

Steps sounded behind her, and a hand clamped down hard on her shoulder. Jack saw her try not to grimace in pain.

"Sam! Where have you been? It's time for toasts." Pete half turned her with pressure on her shoulder. She staggered slightly before catching her balance.

"Hey there, calm down, Shanahan. She's had a rough day."

"She's fine, Jack."

O'Neill inclined his head slightly, and narrowed his eyes. "I mean it. She's had a tough few days. Take it easy."

Pete raised a hand and pointed at Jack from around his bottle of beer. "Dude—you're not _my_ boss. I can take care of my girl."

"Pete." Sam laid a hand on his arm. "Come on. Let's go and do the toasts."

For the first time since he'd joined them, Pete really looked at Sam. "Hey, Baby, what are you wearing?"

_Baby_? Jack fought the urge to dry-heave.

"I was chilly. The General loaned me his jacket."

"You should have come and found me. I would have loaned you mine."

"It's okay." Jack tried to sound friendly. Blow it off, he thought. He waved a hand randomly. "I don't need it."

But Pete reached out and flicked at the jacket's lapel, pushing it off her shoulder. "Give it back to the man, Sam." He smiled widely, nodding, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "He needs it, right General?"

Sam shrugged out of the coat and handed it back to Jack. She was struggling to keep the peace, trying not to make a scene. Already people were peering out the doors at them—Pete's ability to regulate his volume had decreased as his insistence grew.

"It's a jacket, Shanahan." Jack was proud of himself—that his voice maintained its lightness. "Not a big deal."

"Pete, come on. Let's go inside." She'd clearly never seen this part of her fiancé before. She caught O'Neill's eye. Silently between them passed an apology, a plea for understanding.

Jack folded the coat over his arm and tried to move past them, but Pete took a step toward him and grabbed his arm. He pulled the General close, and looked up at him. "She's with me now—you got that, old man?"

But Pete had gone too far, and Jack could take no more. Silently, he placed a hand square on Pete's shoulder and shoved him into the wall. Pete landed with a thud, and Jack pinned him there with a forearm across his upper chest, crowding Pete even further with his much larger body. He didn't speak, he merely glared down into Pete's face. The younger man's expression changed slowly from arrogance to fear as his struggling didn't do so much as loosen the General's grip. His breathing became quick and shallow. Still, O'Neill merely held him to the wall and pilloried him with a look.

"Sir." Sam spoke softly from behind them. "Sir—what are you doing?"

O'Neill ignored him.

"Jack, please."

O'Neill's eyes dipped slightly, then returned to bore into Pete's face. He leaned harder briefly, dipping his head to speak directly into the other man's ear. "Do we understand each other, _Son_?"

Pete let out a tortured breath. "Yes, Sir, we do." He swallowed hard, then gasped deeply when O'Neill suddenly let up on the pressure and stepped away.

Jack didn't look at Carter as he walked away, but he paused as he passed her. "I'm sorry, Carter, for everything. For misunderstandings." He glanced meaningfully over at Pete.

He didn't wait for a response before striding through the assembled spectators, down the steps of the deck, and into the darkness.

He wouldn't have liked anything she had to say, anyway.


	10. Passing Storm

Passing Storm

So, there were two of them now.

He didn't know whether to cheer or cry.

Of course, one of them was an intergalactic death machine determined to wipe out the human race and devour all resources at her disposal in order to replicate as many times as possible.

The other one was going to marry the shrub.

He was leaning towards the machine.

Carter had returned from the Alpha Site and given him a quick, pained, report, and then headed into her lab. He and Teal'c had tried to talk to her later, but she'd quickly shouldered all the blame she could and then returned to staring through her microscope.

He supposed that she was still in there, but he hesitated about going in. For one thing, he had a commissary budget to review, and for another thing, he was stalling.

See? He could be honest with himself.

That's why he still sat at his desk, going through dietary requirements and serving sizes apportioned out over 400 SGC staff for thirty days. All this multiplied and/or divided by shift changes and off world commissary ingredient lists for non-Earth personnel and indigenous species. He didn't have enough fingers. Those numbers were _way_ over ten.

So he pulled up last month's expenditures and budget information on his desktop and checked it. That one had seemed to work all right—at least, no one had gone hungry that he knew of. Last month's and this month's numbers were roughly the same. Licking the pad of his thumb, he flipped to the last page of the budget and signed it.

Done. He looked around for something else to use as an excuse, but he'd done all his paperwork for the day. For the first time in his storied career as General, he was caught up.

Crap.

He looked at the clock on the wall. Four thirty. If he just held out for another half an hour, maybe she'd go home and then he'd be able to stall until tomorrow.

The truth was, he still didn't know what to say to her. She'd blamed herself, and he'd waved that off in public. But he kind of _did_ blame her—she'd been the one all gung ho to cooperate with the mean, nasty, evil robot, after all. Like he'd said before, she was trusting—too much so at times. He could count off several times when her inherent belief in people had gone very, very wrong. Linnea came to mind, and Fifth, and the Tollans, and most of the Tok'ra. And she'd thought she could make a deal with that Bynarr dude on Sokar's planet, and that hadn't helped at all. Then she'd wanted to talk with that stupid computer virus, and it had taken her over.

And he'd had to Zat her—_twice_. He still couldn't shake that one.

He'd thought about this many times since she'd announced her engagement. How she trusted too much. Her choice in men was clouded by it—she saw men how they _could_ be instead of how they _were_. Jonas Hansen had been her project, her man to save. Narim was her scientific superior, yet she could offer simplicity to his over technological life. Ironic. Martouf was in love with someone she'd never known, and she'd been drawn to him because of someone she'd never been. Orlin had given up eternal enlightenment to be with her. Now, _there_ was an ego boost.

But in the end, each of them had disappointed her. Each of them had died, actually.

Jack wondered briefly, wryly, if Pete Shanahan knew that his days were numbered.

But that brought O'Neill to himself. She trusted him, too—entirely too much. She gave him attributes that he clearly didn't have—wanted him to be things that he wasn't. From the beginning, she'd been idealistic, and he'd blamed it on her youth and inexperience. He was still waiting for that bubble to burst.

And he'd trusted her, too. He gave her latitude in her work that sometimes backfired—but usually didn't. Who else did he know who could blow up a sun? And yet she still always burned the microwave popcorn. Go figure.

Jack leaned back in his chair, forgetting that it wasn't really his chair. General Hammond had ordered that one sent to his office in D.C. this morning at the same time he'd requisitioned Daniel and Walter to go with him to Atlantis. The chair he currently was leaning in was one pulled out of storage, and kind of smelled like something had died in it. And something poked out exactly where it hit his left shoulder blade. He grimaced, interlacing his fingers behind his head.

He'd trusted her to make the naquadah bomb when that freaking big ship had been terrafarming on—whatever planet that had been. And she'd come through for him. And she'd set his leg and kept him alive on Antarctica. And he'd relied on her to fly the cargo ship through the planet while riding on a giant meteor, and she'd made it _not_ hit Paris.

But then, he'd also trusted her with a confession while he'd been strapped into a chair, but that hadn't worked out well at all.

So she was batting around .500.

But work-wise—when it mattered, she usually came through—this last minor detail giving immunity to a mechanical killing machine aside.

He looked up at the clock again. Four thirty eight. He wasn't sure he'd ever thought for that long in one stretch.

He sighed and rested his elbows on his desk. The SGC sat quietly around him. The 'Gate had been silent for several hours. No Walter buzzed around to make his life miserable. Daniel was up there on the Prometheus, too, presumably having a grand ol' time. Jack missed the space monkey. For all of their arguing, Daniel was still the closest thing Jack had to a best friend.

Doc Polly had said a few days ago that Jack needed to surround himself with people that would allow him to grow as a person.

That was kind of tough when you were The General. You were supposed to be the most grown person around.

Time to man up.

He stood abruptly, shoving back the chair with a movement of one leg. Rounding the desk, he walked through the door and down the hall, entering the elevator, where he was unusually alone. He pressed the buttons and then waited as the lift pulled him up to her floor.

He wondered briefly if he could get clearance to put music in the elevator system. He was the General, after all. He wanted to ascend and descend with The Eagles.

Her floor was as quiet as his. The scientists must have gone home early. O'Neill passed Felger's lab, and then paused. Her door cracked open, a light spilling out into the hallway.

He put a hand on the door. "Carter? You in here?"

He listened carefully, but there was no reply. He paused, thinking she may be in the mess or the john, but then he heard the scuff of a shoe on the cement floor, and a sniff.

He hoped to all the Gods in the Universe that she'd gotten a cold.

Experience told him they weren't listening.

Gently, he pushed the door open and entered, standing in the frame for a moment until he found her. She was sitting on the floor, feet planted solid flat on the floor in front of her, arms wrapped around her knees. When she looked up and saw him, she ducked her head. Sniff.

"So, I thought I told you that it wasn't your fault."

She sniffled again.

"Are you crying, Carter?" He went for humor. "There's no crying in intergalactic domination."

She raised a hand to swipe at her face. "Funny, sir."

Jack crossed the room, dodging all her various doohickeys. He wasn't allowed to touch. Ever. He knew that.

Even so, the shiny ones always beckoned.

But today Jack restrained himself, stopping in front of her. She'd settled herself between two of her winky blinky fixtures—he wasn't sure they actually did anything, but they looked really fun. And the space between them was pretty big, if she'd just—

"Shove over." He motioned with one hand. She scooched over a bit, opening up a space between her and the other machine. Turning, he bent and then sat next to her.

The room looked different this way. Like your mom's kitchen when you were three instead of thirty. And like if your mom had lots of really interesting widgets that could blow up a small planet.

She sat, silent, staring at her fingernails.

"So, pouting, are we?"

"No, sir."

"Now, now, Colonel, surely there's a reg somewhere about lying to your commanding officer."

"There is, sir, but I don't really care."

"So, we're pouting _and_ wallowing."

She hesitated, then let out a sigh. "I know you're trying to make me feel better, sir, but I'm really not in the mood."

"So go home."

She shrugged.

"Don't want to go home either?"

"It's too quiet there."

"Doesn't Pete get home from work soon?"

She looked at him oddly. "Pete and I aren't living together."

That caught him off guard. "Oh. I just thought—you know that—"

"—That since we're engaged, we're going to shack up?"

"And now that Cassie's not there, he'd—"

"—That he'd be around all the time."

"You know, that gets really annoying at times."

"—Me finishing all your sentences?"

Jack raised an eyebrow in her general direction. She wiped at her eyes again with the back of her hand. "Sorry, sir."

"S'all right. You've had a day." He watched as she fumbled in her pockets, looking for something. O'Neill straightened his legs out for a minute and dug deep into a side pocket of his BDUs and came up with a few commissary paper napkins. Without preamble, he handed them to her.

He would have thought she'd be more delicate while blowing her nose. You learn something new every day.

"I miss her."

"I know." Jack nodded. "I think she misses you, too."

"Not enough to come home."

Another sniffle.

Jack observed her quietly out of the corner of his eye. He had his own issues with her lately, and truthfully, he would rather be anywhere else than here on the floor of her lab. He figured that Pete should be in charge of these moments when she needed support and comfort. But she just looked so dejected, and he knew that she was giving herself no quarter—she fully and completely blamed herself for what had happened. He also knew that Pete wasn't the type to just let her be upset. Pete would try to fix it. If Jack knew anything about the woman sitting next to him, it was that she preferred to fight her own battles, and figure out her own problems.

She just sometimes needed a shoulder or two along the way.

"Do you want her to?"

Sam looked at him, her watery eyes impossibly blue. "Yeah. She's all I have left of Janet."

O'Neill knew that it went deeper than that. Like himself, Carter found it difficult to have friendships outside the SGC. How could you, when you couldn't really say anything true? It was tough to have a real friend when you had to constantly lie to them.

And the General had been purposely ignoring the truth of things during his extended stay in Denial.

He shifted uncomfortably. He liked living in Denial—it suited him. They had good cake.

"I can talk to her."

"I'd rather it be her decision, sir."

"I honestly don't see it happening any time soon, Carter." He pulled his knees back up and rested his forearms on them, clasping his fingers together. "She was pretty adamant."

"Because of Pete."

"Yeah." His lips flattened into a thin line.

A tension descended between them. He knew that both of them were thinking about the engagement party and his own angry exit. He felt her go rigid beside him.

"Pete's not a bad guy. He just had a few too many drinks—we've talked about it."

"Pete needs to control himself." O'Neill turned to look at Carter. "I won't have him endangering this operation or my personnel because he's a pansy when it comes to beer."

"I know, sir. I'll take care of it."

Jack sighed and stretched his legs out again. His butt was falling asleep and it had started to do this strange little tingle. He shifted, but the tingling persisted.

"He's very sorry about what happened, you know. He said he thought you were trying to hit on me."

"So he's jealous now?"

"Unconsciously subordinate, I would say."

Jack harrumphed. "What does that mean?"

"Deep down, I think he feels inferior to you, sir."

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, sir, you're _you_. You've saved the world several times, and been places and done things that are indescribable. Pete knows a lot of it—not everything, but enough to know that he'll never quite measure up to that."

The only thing good about this conversation is that it had gotten her to stop crying. Jack felt confident that the sniffling would stop soon, too.

"You've done a lot too, you know. Doesn't he feel second rate to you, too?"

"He knows me better. He sees when I do bonehead things like leave the cap off the toothpaste."

"You know, they make caps that flip down nowadays."

Finally, a smile crept into her voice. "Yes, sir."

He watched some other winky blinky lights on the other side of the room for a while, waiting for Carter to let him know that she felt better and that he could go. There a few ways over the years that she'd done that. A nudge, a poke, a casual salute. That brilliant smile she gave when he got _really_ lucky.

"Why do you put up with me, Sir?"

A statement like _that_ wasn't one of those signs.

"You're a great officer—"

"No." She held up one hand. "No, I mean, why are you being so nice to me after all I've done to you?"

"What do you think that you've done to me?" He desperately longed for the drive back into Denial.

"I know that this whole Pete thing is awkward. I know that there are things that are left unfinished between you and me. But I also know that they will always be unfinished."

"Yes."

"I just needed to move on." She was nearly whispering now.

"I know."

"And then I kissed you."

"You did." Couldn't shake that one, either.

"And here you are, on my floor, helping me feel better about delivering the means to our defeat into the hands of our enemy."

O'Neill folded his arms across his abdomen. He'd been going over this in his mind for months—without really coming to any conclusions. Even Doc Polly had been unable to help him understand exactly why he didn't dismiss Carter outright.

He'd told himself earlier to man up. Honesty. Truth. In order to understand everything, he had to be able to answer that exact question. Why was he unable to let her go? Why was he so drawn to her—why did he _need_ to be near her?

He'd felt the attraction to Carter from their first meeting. She'd walked into the briefing room on that first day, and he'd been able to admire her generally as a beautiful woman and specifically as a talented officer. After their first mission, he'd also been impressed by her strength and her gumption.

And slowly she'd burrowed her way under his skin, into his soul. She'd become so valuable and vital to him that he'd been scared as hell. O'Neill wasn't the kind of guy that needed other people. He was black ops—an assassin, a sniper, a guy who felt nothing about eliminating targets. The Air Force had found that out about him early on, and during all those years where most guys were learning how to tune up their Corvettes, Jack was learning the ins and outs of taking lives.

She understood that. And it didn't frighten her. But he'd wanted to show her that he was more than that particular ability.

Some time ago—more than two years after they had started going through the 'Gate—he'd been put on an assignment to scour out some NID operatives who had been stealing Asgard and Tollan technology. Maybourne had been in charge of them all. Jack had colluded with Hammond on a plan that would have him steal a device from the Tollan and then retire rather than face prison. All so that he could infiltrate the rogue units and stop the thieving.

And when she'd offered him her support during that operation with the Tollan and the NID, he'd said something unscripted—something he didn't expect to ever say and mean it.

"_I haven't been acting like myself since I met you."_

And even then, when he didn't need her as desperately as he did now, he knew the honesty in that statement.

"You make me want to be a better man, Carter. No matter who you're with, or what you've done, there's something in you that makes me want to be a better me. I'd never felt that before." Jack watched as her eyes filled up again. Sad? Happy? He couldn't tell. He only knew that he was blasting the bridge back into Denial apart.

He found that perfect blue gaze too much to bear and looked away, focusing instead on her left hand, which was wrapped around her knee. He could see her engagement ring glimmering on her finger.

"You have this ability to make guys want to be men. We want to live up to the expectations you place on us. I want to be the person that you believe me to be. And even though I know I will fail, I still want to try. And that's why I'm here, on your floor, trying to make you feel better. I like who I am when I'm with you."

"You don't fail, sir." After a long pause, she could finally speak. "You haven't ever failed."

"That's where you're wrong, Carter." Jack reached out at tapped the diamond in her ring. He wet his lips, standing up in a single, fluid motion. "No matter how hard I try, I'll never measure up to the ideal image of me that you have in your head."

"I don't know what to say to that, sir."

O'Neill shook his head and cracked an inward smile. "Say you'll be okay. Say you're going to dust yourself off and go back out there."

"I will, sir." She offered him that, at least.

"But you'll understand that I won't be coming to the wedding."

Carter nodded, biting her bottom lip. "I think I've known that for a while."

"Better?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"I'm going home." The General motioned blandly toward the door. "You going?"

"Later. I want to look at a few other things tonight first."

"Well, be safe."

Jack reached the door before turning and adding, "I'll talk to Cassie for you. See what we can do."

"Sir—"

He'd already turned back towards the hall, but he stopped again, his back still towards her. He heard her stand, heard her take a step.

"It works both ways, you know. Wanting to be more."

Jack stood perfectly still, unable to move.

"But sometimes that's still not enough, sir, is it?"

He nodded deliberately, acknowledging, before striding out of the lab and out into the hallway.

And he made it to his office and locked the door before he started to shake.


	11. Passing Flight

Somehow, I always forget to add this: These characters aren't mine. I just like to take them out to play. I promise I'll put them back and that I won't make them do anything untoward. I'm not making anything from this—except maybe a little satisfaction in sharing stories that The Powers That Be never got around to telling.

So there.

Passing Flight

It had felt good to go off world again. Of course, he'd had to put up with the likes of Harry Maybourne and his gaggle of Medieval wives, but in the end, he'd ended up with a rush of nostalgic adrenaline.

Oh yeah, and a time machine.

Cool.

He missed this part of the job. He missed being with his team, heading off to who-knew-where to battle who-knew-who over who-knew-what. It had been so easy to slide back into the routine of it. He sort of wished that he could use the little ship they'd found to go back only a few years—back before Tok'ra Xerox detectors and little nasty metal bugs. Back when they went off world, confronted a problem, and then fixed it.

So after his Jaffa kicking, system lord destroying, time machine adventure, he'd been greeted back by a voice mail from Cassie. They were out of milk.

It had reminded Jack that a) they were indeed out of milk, and b) he still hadn't talked to Cassie about moving back to Carter's house.

Talk about your buzz kill.

He would have gladly returned to Maybourne's harem as long as he didn't have to talk to Cassandra. Why was it always the women in his life making things difficult? He didn't have these problems with Daniel or Teal'c. Well, with Daniel, maybe. But only because Ol' Danny-boy was really quite scarily in touch with his feminine side.

Obediently, he'd gone by Albertson's and picked up a gallon of skim for her and 2% for himself. He just couldn't bring himself to drink the blue water of skim. He'd ordered the latest season of the Simpson's on DVD from Amazon and it had arrived while he'd been off-world. A little Heineken, a lot of Homer, and he'd have the 'nads necessary to discuss things with Cass.

He wasn't expecting to find Kinsey in his living room. Looking back, he should have shot him when he had the chance. Instead, they had played war games with the Ruskies, until the President of the former Soviet Union had figured out that his key General and top advisor was, in fact, a snake headed Goa'uld.

And then Kinsey had flown the coop in a stolen Al'Kesh. Yep. He really should have shot him when he'd had the chance.

Cassie wasn't there when he got home, but she'd left dinner warming in the oven and a bottle of Tums on the counter. She knew that dealing with Kinsey always gave him heartburn. He was oddly touched.

He dished himself some lasagna from the casserole dish and debated briefly before choosing a soda over a beer. Balancing the plate and the soda, he moved himself into the living room and sat, prepared to treat himself to all of his yellowish friends in Springfield. He'd barely pressed the first buttons on the remote when the front door burst open.

"Jack?" Cassie's voice echoed in the foyer. "You in here?"

He didn't have time to answer before her head poked around the divider. She'd added a streak or two of purple to the blond stripes in her hair.

"Hey—Melissa and I were wondering if we could host a study group here."

"Here? Now?" Jack's looked down to where his plate was balanced on his lap, his can of soda leaning precariously against one thigh, and each hand held a remote.

"Yeah—just a few people. It's for Biology, so I kind of need the help."

"Now?"

"The study rooms in the library are all full."

"How many?"

"Not too many—ten, I think."

"There's not enough lasagna."

Cassie grinned. "I know. We'll get pizza. It's really important. These are the smart ones in the class, and I could really use their skills."

Jack set down his remotes, picked up his can and plate, and stood. "It's really important?"

"Jack—come on. Please?" Her fingers tapped the wall directly below his picture of Sara and Charlie.

She was working on a whine, he could tell. Nothing could get him to clear out of a room faster than a woman whining. The General wondered briefly if she knew that. "Okay—do I need to clear all the way out, or can I hang around?"

"It might be kind of noisy."

"Studying makes noise?"

"Well, yeah, when there are a bunch of people doing it together." She said, but her tone said, _"Duh."_

Jack shrugged, the plate and can moving upward with the movement. "All right. But I've got an early morning meeting, so you'll have to clear out by eleven."

Cassie squealed and bounded over to him. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "You're the greatest, General O'Neill."

"Back at'cha, General Pain." It had become their joke.

----OOOOOOO----

So that was how he ended up at O'Malley's eating wings and drinking a beer. He'd thought he would escape to his room, or to the deck above to look through his telescope, but in the end he'd wanted to be somewhere other than amongst the giggling and chatting that apparently comprised studying these days.

He sat at the bar, determined to make the beer last the duration, debating a game of pool. The people at the tables looked as if they were on break from college—too young, too tanned, too loud. He sighed. No pool tonight.

"So, what's with the long face?" The voice came from the bar stool on his left. He turned to see a woman sitting next to him. She was mid thirties—pretty. Lots of brown curly hair. She smiled. "You look upset about something."

He took a fortifying swig of his beer. "Not really."

She looked over in the direction of the pool tables. "It looks like they're having fun."

"It looks like they're drunk."

"And drunk would be bad." Her statement was really more of a question.

"Drunk is drunk." Jack picked up the piece of celery that had come with his wings. "I just don't want to play pool with drunk."

"Ah, so it's the _pool_ you wanted, not the _company_." She focused back on the plate in front of her. A large salad piled high. "My mistake."

The people next to her were obviously a couple. So, he figured, she was here alone, too.

He watched her unobtrusively as she picked up her fork and took a bite. She made a face as she chewed, looking around for something. Under a napkin, she found a small cup of dressing, and another full of chopped bacon. She smiled.

She was _really_ pretty—what he could see of her face around her hair, at least. She was tall and slim, and filled out her sweater well. He looked away and dipped his celery into the ranch dressing they had brought with his wings. Frowning, Jack wondered exactly how long it had been since a pretty woman had started up a conversation with him in a bar.

He remembered disco playing, and some funky smoke, and someone wearing silver boots.

"It doesn't mean you can't have company if you don't want it." Her voice intruded again on O'Neill's thoughts. "I mean, here we are, sitting at the only two bar stools available in this place, side by side, and we both happen to be unaccompanied by anyone else. Some might call it kismet."

"Some might." He agreed. "Or some might call it pathetic that two such individuals as ourselves are sitting at the only bar stools available and yet, still, by ourselves."

"Is that self-pity I hear in your voice?"

"You tell me." Jack watched as she twisted her mouth up to keep from smiling. She seemed to smile a lot. But it was okay—she looked good doing it. She had a great smile.

"So why does an individual such as yourself find himself at a place like this alone?" She doused her salad in honey mustard dressing and liberally coated the top with the chopped bacon.

"Hunger?"

She poked him with a delicate finger. "I'm trying to ascertain whether or not you are involved with someone else."

Duh. That took a lot of thought. Was he? Physically—no. He was the proverbial bird, flying solo. Emotionally? All kinds of cans of worms would be opened by that. He opted for physical. He said simply, "Divorced."

"Kids?"

His mouth flattened impossibly. "No." That still hurt.

"How long ago?"

"Eight years."

"And you're still unattached?"

"It's complicated." Even Jack knew how lame that sounded.

"Well, all I can say is that the women of Colorado Springs must be blind to overwhelming cuteness." She poked him again.

"Cuteness, huh?"

"The overwhelming kind." Her eyes were kind of sparkly. He wondered how she did that.

"And you are—" He had to know.

She turned, offering him her hand. "Kerry Johnson."

He looked at it briefly before reaching across his wings and shaking it. "Jack O'Neill."

Kerry screwed up her face, her mouth smiling just a bit. The grip she still had on his hand tightened. Not unpleasant, he thought. "Not _General_ Jack O'Neill?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm meeting with a General Jack O'Neill tomorrow. I could tell you where, but then I'd have to shoot you." She squeezed his hand again before letting it go.

And then the light dawned. "Kerry Johnson—you're CIA—here doing the—uh—investigation?"

"The Kinsey Trust thing. Yeah." She grinned. "I got here this afternoon. I'm staying at the hotel across the street."

"Fortuitous."

"There isn't a restaurant in the hotel—continental breakfast only—" Kerry waved her hand dismissively. "And I was too wiped to try and find something decent tonight. Jet lag—you know." Her grin widened. She turned her body towards him, resting her left elbow on the bar. "Now we know why I'm here—what about you?"

"My house has been invaded by freshmen."

Her look questioned.

"Someone's hosting study hall at my place. Term finals are next week."

"You have a kid in college?" Her brow furrowed slightly.

"Sort of." How did he explain Cassie? "She's the daughter of a friend who died recently."

Kerry mulled that over for a minute before clarifying. "Cassandra Frasier?"

He was slightly surprised that she knew that much. The raise of his eyebrows must have told her that. "How did you—"

"I do my homework."

"Ah." He laid his celery aside. "And what else did this homework tell you?"

She speared a cherry tomato with her fork. "Well, for one thing, I learned all kinds of things about you."

"Obviously not what I look like." At her look, he expounded. "You didn't recognize me immediately."

"That's not fair." The tomato looked like a small planetoid as she gestured with her fork. "Picture is in dress blues—not jeans and a sweatshirt. And your hair is different now."

"I'm in disguise."

She stabbed in his direction with the tomato. "It's grayer."

"Yes. It is that."

"Distinguished. Kinda sexy." Somehow, he couldn't take his eyes off the tomato. She moved the fork towards her mouth and pulled the tomato off the tines with her teeth. He caught a glimpse of her tongue, and he wondered randomly if she had done that on purpose.

How long had it been since he had mused on the movements on a woman's tongue? Jogging paths aside, of course. He decided then and there to only focus on tongues he was allowed to notice from now on.

"The picture doesn't do you justice, you know." She'd swallowed, and now a slice of cucumber had been impaled on her fork.

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

"Well," Kerry shook her hair back from her face and leisurely raked his body from head to toe. "I was expecting an old soldier type. You know—a 'damn the torpedoes' kind of guy."

"That would be Navy." Jack pointed out. "I'm Air Force. We don't damn torpedoes, we shoot them down."

"Whatever. All I'm saying is that in general—"

"In General—funny."

She grinned, and breathed out a laugh. "In general, higher up military types seem stiff. You're not that at all."

"Do you know me well enough to make that judgment?"

The cucumber went the way of the tomato. She shrugged as she chewed, holding his gaze. At her swallow, she licked a spot of dressing from the corner of her mouth. "I think I'd like to. Know you, that is. I'd love to know you better."

Jack regarded her intently. It had not only been a long time since he'd chatted up a woman in a bar, it had been _so_ long that an entire generation had been conceived and raised. His last relationship hadn't even been with a woman on Earth. He wasn't sure he even knew how to function in this sphere any more. Not to mention the other elephant in his head—the blond one with the huge blue eyes.

But that elephant was marrying the shrub in a few short weeks.

Kerry Johnson, CIA, sat next to him right here and now. She was interested, if he still knew how to read body language, and they were both adults. And he was tired of waiting—of being alone, if the truth were to be told. Doc Polly might say he'd had a breakthrough.

"I mean, I know that we've just met, but I find you really intriguing—especially knowing some of the other—" She looked around and then back at Jack, lowering her voice, "more _interesting_ things about you."

"You only want me for my intel. Nice."

Kerry glanced down at his jeans-covered thighs. "Well, since I've never met a General who fills out Levi's like that, I'd say there's more to it than just your intel." When she poked him this time, it was in the thigh. "Overwhelming cuteness, remember?"

Flirting. That's what she was doing. She was flirting with him. Jack watched her toss her curls again. Her brown eyes sparkled at him as she took another bite of her salad.

Completely against his will, he noticed again how well she filled out her sweater. Intriguing, indeed.

O'Neill took a sip of his beer, then lengthened the sip into a longer swallow. Setting down the beer, he dipped a wing into the dressing and took a bite, stripping the meat off in one scrape. Discarding the bone, he wiped his hands on a napkin. He knew she was watching him. And when she reached over and wiped a smudge of buffalo sauce from his mouth with the pad of her thumb, he knew she really was interested.

When she licked the sauce off her thumb, he started to be interested back.

She wanted him. Not in some vague future, when the stars would align and allow two dedicated officers to finally occupy the same life, but now, when there were no regulations infringing on the _now_.

"I mean, don't you kinda get a vibe? Believe me, that's the last thing I expected when I read your file. But then I find out that this hot guy that I'd been scoping since he walked in is actually the guy that I'm supposed to be working closely with over the next few weeks." She stabbed at another tomato. "Talk about your lucky days."

Jack raised his brows. "Lucky." He reached for another wing.

"I mean—I work with a lot of new people—I'm moving around all the time. Sometimes I like who I get to work with, and sometimes I don't." She bit the tomato off the fork this time. After a moment she continued. "I just consider it lucky when I get to work with someone cute."

"I thought I was hot."

"You, General, are both." She'd polished off her salad. Shoving the plate away, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She turned her entire body to face him. "Very much both."

He was at a complete loss. The past few months flooded back at him. The pain, the disappointment, the longing, the rejection. The anger. The pain.

Most of all, the pain.

Kerry was watching him, judging his reactions, he knew. He tried not to show too much. He didn't want to appear too pathetic.

"So, I know that we just met—" she took a deep breath, doing all kinds of interesting things to that sweater.

"We did."

"And I know that we're going to be working together."

"We are."

"But we're adults, right?" She clasped her hands in front of her. "We can work together and play together—right?"

And he found himself nodding. And she chatted away as he finished his wings and his beer. And he found that it wasn't awful, being touched—his hair being futzed with, his shirt being smoothed. It had been eons, it seemed, since someone had touched him playfully—intentionally—easily. And then, like a gentleman, he found himself offering to walk her back to her hotel.

And when she took his hand, he didn't pull away. A hand in his felt foreign, warm, good. So he found himself clasping it more tightly, and then tracing the lines on her palm as they ascended the elevator to her room, as she traced a pattern on his abdomen.

Somehow he found himself answering her hint for a kiss—that lively face turned up to his, those lips slightly open, inviting. And when the kissing turned into more, he found himself almost able to forget that the hair he buried his hands in wasn't gold, and the eyes watching eagerly as he locked the door behind them weren't blue.

And when it was over, he found that in the dark, his eyes closed, he could almost forget that the woman lying beside him wasn't Sam.

He could quell the sense of guilt. He could forget. He could pretend. He could deny.

He just couldn't live like he had been—Alone. Wanting. Waiting.

And in the morning, he stopped and bought eggs and some more beer, and when Carter called, he could pretend that he hadn't just spent the night wishing she'd been in his bed, instead.

And he could pretend that he wasn't disgusted with himself.


	12. Passing On

Passing On

Making the omelette had helped him come to terms his antipathy.

Talking with Joe the Barber had, too.

It had been his day off. He couldn't remember having actually taken one during the past few years—he usually ended up on base on those rare days when he was supposed to be off base—usually some problem or another with the Jaffa or a mission gone wrong called him back. Last week it had been Kinsey showing up uninvited. This week, it was the bald barber with the eerily familiar voice.

He'd never been more grateful to an intruder in his life. Jack had felt profoundly uncomfortable during the phone conversation with Carter—as if he'd done something dirty. She'd called him just as he'd been stepping into the elevator at Kerry's hotel. He'd answered it without thinking—his disjointed brain hadn't even considered checking the caller id. Normally, he welcomed her calls—that was somewhere Pete and the rest of the world didn't normally intrude. But he'd just lingeringly kissed Kerry good morning, smiling as she'd arched lithely up against him, and his mind in the elevator had been pleasantly engrossed with how warm her skin had been where it had been pressed against his own.

Even as he'd castigated himself over his weakness, he'd found a release in that hotel room. A few of them, actually. It was a double edged thing, though. Knowing that his heart was involved in one place and his body in another made him feel as if he was lying to everyone—especially himself.

And so he'd shelved it as best he could and chatted benignly with Carter—trying to make it feel as if he hadn't just been tangled up with another woman, having to remind himself to say and think the right name.

Joe the Barber, at this point, had seemed to be his salvation.

After they'd gotten past the gun stage of the conversation, Jack had calmed the little guy down by making him breakfast. Omelettes—like he'd planned on making anyway. And eventually, Joe had stopped shaking and apologizing, and gotten to the point of his visit.

O'Neill had to sympathize with the guy. Weird things had hijacked his life from time to time and wreaked havoc, too. After rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher (Cassie got peeved if he didn't), they'd climbed in the Super Duty and started the drive to the Mountain.

"So, is the team off world right now?"

O'Neill found it amusing that Joe spouted SGC vernacular so easily. He checked the rear view mirror and then changed lanes before answering. "Nope, they're all Earth based right now. Daniel's been doing some stuff with Ancient translations—"

"When is he not?" Joe opined vehemently.

Jack grinned. Finally. Someone who understood him. "Yes. And Teal'c has been holed up trying to figure strategy for the Free Jaffa to establish their own solidified government."

Joe shook his head, an amused expression in his eye. "Those Jaffa—won't it be wonderful when they can govern themselves?"

Jack changed lanes again, fighting the impulse to honk. He hated it when people drove slowly in the fast lane.

Joe looked around him. "It's a beautiful place for a base, though. Even though I know you're underground. But driving there must be nice every day."

O'Neill grunted noncommittally.

"Is Colonel Carter on base? Or is she at the Alpha Site?" Joe shook his head. "No, she's probably in town making plans for the wedding."

"I'm not sure where she is. I think it's her day off, too." He found he could still lie easily—a skill left over from other jobs he'd held.

"Was that her you were talking to when you came in? Before I accosted you, I mean."

O'Neill glanced over at Joe. He'd apologized profusely for the pretend gun, the pretend hold up, the false threat. "Yeah—I was talking to her."

"So you still speak on the phone from time to time, even though she's not on your team anymore."

"She's still a friend."

"Friends." Joe nodded. "I guess that's all you can be, what with Pete and all."

"She's still under my command, too."

"Yes, well, I guess that's all you can have, now." He hummed to himself a little before adding, "I guess it's better that the two of you have moved on."

A thought occurred to the General. "Joe—exactly how much have you seen with that stone—lately?"

"Well." Joe screwed up his face, thinking. "I've seen some stuff with you and Cassandra Frasier—boy that was sad when her mom did. And you and a lot of Chinese food—really, Jack, Happy Family Chicken and Dumplings?"

"What's wrong with the Happy Family?"

"I would have imagined you more of a Moo Goo Gai Pan kind of guy. Maybe Mongolian Beef."

Jack stared at him for second before scowling. "But Happy Family Chicken and Dumplings is so—Happy. There are dumplings. There's nothing happier than dumplings."

"Well, whatever. All I'm saying is that a guy like you—who has saved the world several times—should like more manly food."

"Meat and potatoes?"

Joe's look was frankly measuring him. "Or wings and a beer."

Jack pursed his lips. "Wings and a beer."

Joe stayed silent momentarily. Without looking at the General he said, "Into one night stands now, are we?"

Jack sighed, adjusting his hands on the steering wheel.

Joe shrugged. "I can understand it, I guess. Although in all the time since My Charlene has been gone, I haven't gone looking elsewhere for companionship."

O'Neill had noticed in the first ten minutes that he'd known Joe, that he spoke of his wife as My Charlene—just like that. In capitals. Even though he knew that Joe and his wife were currently separated, Jack felt a twinge of envy. He wanted that—wanted to be able to identify someone as being his. And not in a possessive, alpha guy way, either. He wished that someone would _want_ to be identified as together with him. Kerry had mentioned several times that their fling—however long it lasted—had to be kept quiet. Yet another woman placing demands.

"It can't be easy. But even so, you don't love one woman and do—things—with another. I guess that way of thinking is going the way of the dodo." Joe went on. "But, I mean, Colonel Carter with Pete—and even after the display at the engagement party—that's gotta hurt. I feel your pain, if that doesn't sound too creepy."

"Thanks. I appreciate that." And Jack was surprised to find that he actually did.

"Don't thank me," Joe motioned with his hand towards his breast pocket. "Thank the stone."

They had driven into the compound parking lot. Jack got out first, and then called ahead to security to inform them that he'd be accompanied. Within a few minutes they had passed through the first two checkpoints and were on the second of the two elevators taking them down the silo towards the infirmary.

----OOOOOOO----

They'd given Joe Spencer a CAT Scan. During the procedure, Jack retreated to his office to place a call to Homeworld Security to let them know what was happening. Given that it was a Saturday morning, an aide in the office took a message. Apparently, a barber from Indiana didn't compose enough of a security threat to warrant contacting the higher-ups on a weekend—something about golf and demotions. Jack returned the phone to its cradle and leaned back in his chair—this new one hadn't quite been broken in yet. He wiggled a little to help it along. Of course, Hammond had been in his for eight years or more before it had felt right. Jack prayed to anyone who would listen that he wouldn't have this chair for that long.

He suddenly felt tired.

A knock sounded on the door just before Daniel stuck his head around it. "Jack? You busy?"

The General sat back up. He waved Daniel in with a motion of his head.

Daniel entered, and then shut the door behind him. "I'm wondering what happened last night."

"Last night?" Jack suddenly went still. "What about last night?"

"Well, Cassie called and said that you'd left and hadn't come back. She wondered if you had come to my place."

"Obviously, I didn't."

"She sounded concerned."

"She was the one that chased me out in the first place—she and her gaggle of giggling biology majors."

"Jack." Daniel looked disapproving. "You should have called her to tell her where you were."

Well, that would have been awkward. Jack leaned forward on his desk, covering his face with both hands.

"What happened?"

O'Neill uncovered some of his mouth and most of one eye. "I went to O'Malley's."

Daniel raised a brow. "Well, no good could come of _that_."

"I had wings and a beer."

"Just one?"

"Yes, just one, Daniel." Jack placed both hands on the top of his desk. "What do you think I am? A lush?"

Daniel pulled a chair closer to the desk and sat. "Well, Cassie was worried. She thought you might have had an accident or something."

"I didn't." He wished he had some papers to shuffle, but the desk was conspicuously bare.

"Did you talk to her when you got home?"

"She was gone when I got home."

"When, last night?"

"Daniel, how old am I?" O'Neill couldn't look at him. "Or do I suddenly need a curfew?"

"Jack, I know how old you are—or thereabouts. What I'm asking is where you were."

"Why do you want to know?"

Daniel didn't answer for a long time. When he did, his voice was quiet, calm. "I know that you've been going through some stuff lately, and might be still struggling. What with plans going forward as they appear to be. With Sam."

"I've already talked to Carter about the fact that I won't be at her wedding." Jack's voice was low, too. "She and I have hashed that out, at least."

"You're not going?"

He moved his hands to disguise the fact that they had begun to shake. "Daniel, I _can't_."

Jack looked at Daniel then, and the younger man read him for a long beat before nodding. "Okay. You do what you have to."

"I will."

They sat in stony silence until a nurse poked her head in. "Sir," she said, "Mr. Spencer is ready for the briefing."

"Thanks." Jack stood.

But before he could round his desk, Daniel cut him off. They stood close—at the end of the desk, by the wall. "Jack, I can just say that I get it. I get it if you want to go out and get blasted and party all night long. But you allowed Cassie in. You let her come and stay with you. She needs some stability."

Jack's lips formed a flat line. Daniel waited expectantly, his blue eyes boring into Jack's. Finally, Jack blew out between his teeth—a long hiss that was accompanied by a frustrated shake of his head. "Daniel—"

"No—I know that you don't want to tell me what's going on with you. It's just not normal for you to disappear like that—"

"I was with a woman." Jack gritted it out, interrupting. "I picked her up at O'Malley's and we went to her hotel room. I stayed the night."

Daniel could not possibly have been more surprised. His mouth formed a big "o"—then tightened. He whistled slightly. "Well."

"Well."

"How long have you known her?"

"Is it important?"

"So, you just met."

"Daniel."

"Jack."

"Daniel." O'Neill turned the other way, rounding the back of his desk towards the door leading into the briefing room. "I have a meeting to get to."

He approached the door and reached for the handle. As he turned it, he heard Daniel call him again.

"Jack, I hope you know what you're doing."

But the General didn't acknowledge he'd heard.

----OOOOOOO----

In the end, Jack had sent Joe Spencer back to Indiana. He traveled there the next day and met him at a park to try to explain things to Joe's Charlene. One thing about being a General in the Air Force was that you got a quick ride to where ever you needed to get. He'd seen the patent relief in Charlene's eyes when he'd explained what had been going on with her husband—she was more comfortable with alien stones than she had been with the prospect of Joe's being mentally ill.

Frankly, Jack could understand that. He was more comfortable with alien stones than with madness, too.

----OOOOOOO----

He'd tried to wait for a while to call Kerry. He'd thought to play it cool—give her a day or so—not seem too desperate. But he still found himself on the phone as soon as he climbed into his truck. She'd told him to pick something up on the way over.

Ming's Mongolian Beef was nearly as good as Happy Family. More exotic. Spicy hot.

And he was finding that exotic lately, was appealing. As Kerry hurriedly flipped open the buttons on his uniform jacket and shoved it off his shoulders, then started in on the buttons of his shirt with her eager little fingers, he decided that spicy hot might be okay, too.

But afterwards, as she slept, her wild array of curls spread over the hotel pillows, Jack slipped out of bed and climbed into the shower.

The running water made it more difficult to hear the sound of his conscience protesting.

The heat coursing down his body felt like it just might burn the guilt away.


	13. Passing Lane

Passing Lane

Jack hitched himself into his truck later that night and headed home. Kerry had pouted a little—wanted him to stay the night, but in the end, she understood that he needed to get home to Cassandra. He drove the ten minutes home with a languor that he barely recognized—it had been a long time since he'd felt satisfied.

That right there was enough to make the Cassie conversation go more easily. At least he hoped so.

He threw his hat and uniform coat on the couch and went back through the foyer towards the stairs to the basement. He descended, pausing at the bottom to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

The previous owners had finished out the basement before they'd sold the house to Jack. There was a decent sized bedroom down there, and a full bathroom, along with several storage areas and the laundry. Everything opened out from a central room which, if one was to be generous, could be called a living room. It was just the right size for a small couch and a TV on a cart. When Jack had bought it, he'd pretty much left it alone. Cassandra, however, had been busy. She'd strung fairy lights around the walls and hung a few Chinese lanterns that she had asked Jack to order from IKEA. The brown and tan plaid couch, currently enveloped in a bright purple slipcover, sat with its back to the staircase. She'd hung pictures on the walls, too. He recognized most of the people—Janet, Sam, Daniel, Teal'c, some of Cassie's high school friends that he'd met from time to time at birthday parties and other celebrations. A few bookshelves sidled up against another wall.

And there were two people currently on the purple couch, completely oblivious to the General behind them.

Jack thought they would probably have been oblivious to a nuclear detonation.

It brought back memories of how he'd met Sara's father for the first time—in just such a basement, while he had been busy with just such activities.

Jack cleared his throat, and then, when that got no response, cleared it again more loudly. Two heads popped up over the back of the couch. The non-striped one immediately jumped up and half saluted—then dropped his hand, and then made a move to straighten his shirt.

"Sir!" He stammered. "Uh—Sir. Uh—this isn't what you—uh—think—sir."

Cassie, for her part, just leaned herself on the back of the couch and grinned. "Hi, Jack."

"Cassie." Jack nodded to her, then turned his attention to the young man standing up, hair messed and clothes askew. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Craig." Cassie jerked her head in the young man's direction.

"Craig." Jack perused him. He was tall and athletically built, with military cropped hair. "Air Force?"

"Yes sir!"

The General looked down at his striped-haired cherub. "Well, at least you're aiming upward."

She blinked at him innocently. "Why, whatever could you mean?"

"Treat my basement with respect, General Pain."

"Yes, sir." Cassie grinned again. She tucked her hair behind her ears with both hands and came up on her knees. "Did you need anything, Jack?"

O'Neill regarded her and her beau through narrowed eyes. "Craig, chill out."

The young man fought the urge to salute. "Yes, sir!"

Jack and Cassie shared a look. "When you're done here, Cass, I need to talk to you."

"Sure, General O'Neill."

"And you'll be done here soon, right?"

"Sure, General O'Neill."

"Soon." He punctuated himself with a finger jabbed at her. She grinned and wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Craig still stood stiffly in front of the couch. Jack snorted and turned back up the stairs, waving a hand behind him. "At ease, Airman."

----OOOOOOO----

She found him later, sitting on his deck, contemplating the universe. Well, not the universe, exactly, but his back yard, at least. She pulled up a chair and plunked herself down next to him. Jack took a swig of water from the bottle he held and glanced over at her.

"Where's Waldo?"

"He went home."

"Dorms or on base?"

"Dorms. He's ROTC."

"He's not at the Academy?"

Cassie shook her multi-tonal hair. "No, I met him at the college."

"Is he nice?"

Cassie smiled and suddenly found a fingernail very interesting. After a long pause she peeked at Jack from behind a long lock of hair that had fallen in front of her face. "He kind of reminds me of you, actually. When he's not completely freaked out with Tourette's saluting, that is."

Jack pointed at her with his water bottle. "That settles it. He's off limits."

She laughed, leaning back in her chair. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Jack sighed and set his water on the arm of his chair. "I spoke to Sam a while ago."

"And she's dumping the Spud and wants me to come back home?"

"You're halfway right."

"Let me guess, not the part about the Spud."

Jack caught her gaze with his own. "She misses you, Cass."

Cassandra stuck her finger in her mouth and started to chew on the offending nail.

Jack took a drink of water, stalling as he swallowed. "You're pretty important to her."

"Obviously not that much."

"She loves you."

Cassie snorted.

"She's going to marry him. Eventually, you're going to have to accept that."

"No!" Cassie suddenly stood. "No, I _don't_! Why do people keep telling me what I do and don't have to do? I don't have to accept that! She's making a monumental mistake hitching herself to that moron!"

"Cassie—"

"I mean, why can't she just see that she should be with you? I've seen how sad you've been—I know that it's been crappy for you! I saw you at the Broadmoor—after. While you were sitting in your truck." She turned abruptly and put both hands on the railing of the deck. Her head dropped—she struggled for control.

Jack stood and joined her at the railing. He leaned forward on his forearms, glancing sideways at her. "Cassie, sometimes things just happen at the wrong time—stuff doesn't synch the way it has to for things to work out. Do you understand me?"

"You're saying you don't like her anymore."

"No, I'm just saying that she decided to move on—we've decided to move on. It's for the best."

Cass absorbed that, her fingers drumming the railing. Suddenly, the drumming paused. Jack looked over at her to see her glaring at him. "_You've_ moved on?"

"Cassie—"

"Is that where you went last night? You went out with someone else?"

"Cassandra."

"I can't believe this!" She made a little noise in her throat, like a constricted sob. Even in the darkness, Jack could see the tears welling in her eyes. "So, what, did you just pick some woman up in a bar or something? I mean—why else would you _not_ call me if you weren't screwing some stranger?" She pushed away from the rail, her body shaking. "I can't believe you two. You're worse than teenagers."

He wanted to protest, but she'd hit too close to home. He didn't even have the ability to chastise her crudeness.

"So what, you've got a new girlfriend, and Sam's going to have this idiot husband, and where does that leave me?"

"That's a little selfish of you to assume that it all revolves around you, isn't it?"

"Selfish?" Cassandra jutted one hip out, waving a hand like a hatchet. "I'm selfish? You two can't get your heads out of your butts long enough to see the light, and _I'm_ selfish?"

"Cassie—I haven't done anything to deserve this from you. Carter made the choice to start dating Pete—what am I supposed to do—challenge the shrub to a duel?"

Cassie nodded vehemently. "Yes! Yes, that's exactly what you should have done in the beginning of this stupid debacle—you should have kicked him to the curb!"

"She made the choice! It's not his fault! He's just a guy who happened to be around when she made that decision!"

"And what did you do about it?" Cassie's eyes widened as she pointed at him. "Nothing! Not a damn thing! You sat there and let her go!"

"Cassandra, this is _not_ your life. This is _my_ life. Mine and Carter's. We're adults. We made these decisions, and now we're going to live with them. I only hope that eventually you can grow up a little bit and accept that."

Cassie waited for a while before answering. She was crying freely, her multi colored hair tangled, mascara running down one cheek. She shook her head, her bottom lip quivering. "Yeah, well no offense, General, but your decisions completely _suck_."

She crossed to the door and shoved it open. Jack heard her car keys jingle in the kitchen as she grabbed her purse and nearly ran out of the house, the front door slamming behind her.

It was a long time before he could move.

----OOOOOOO----

As usual, he was overcompensating.

It was really completely out of his control. Death and destruction he could handle. Mayhem and murder he could deal with. He was in his element while confronting System Lords, as well as just regular old Goa'ulds. Jack didn't even break a sweat when fate found him up against intergalactic bad guys that would have had the rest of the world in a tizzy of freaked-out terror.

No—what had Brigadier General Jack O'Neill babbling incoherently?

Jacob Carter.

He'd met the General cum Tok'ra in the Gateroom with his typical banter—his typical overeager-teenage-angst-ridden-crap. All that had been missing was high-water pants and a zit.

And then he discovered that the fate of the galaxy was at stake. And not like it was normally—because who was he kidding, it was _always_ being screwed with somewhere—but really in danger.

Replicators.

He _hated_ those bugs.

And he hadn't been able to answer any of Jacob's questions to the Tok'ra's satisfaction—he wasn't sure when Carter and the rest of SG-1 would come back, he didn't know how their mission with the Jaffa to combat the system lord—who—Miata? Isuzu? Amadeus? Amata-something—was going, and he hadn't heard that the replicators were in town.

Turns out, Jacob was better at the "Jack, don't be an ass" look than Daniel.

He'd actually been grateful when Harriman had informed him that SG-1's IDC had been entered. At least he'd finally been able to tell Jacob something about something.

Too bad Daniel had been beamed away again. To be honest, he wasn't too concerned quite yet. The Space Monkey had a way of reappearing just when all was thought to be lost.

Carter, Bra'tac, and Teal'c had retreated into the locker room to prepare for the briefing, while O'Neill and Jacob had gone to pick up a quick lunch.

It was over some sort of mystery pasta that O'Neill started the incoherent babbling. All because Jacob asked a simple question.

"So—what's this Pete guy like?"

Jack put down his fork and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He was stalling—there was no tip-toeing around _that_ tulip. Jacob noticed and gave that sarcastic half smile of his—the one that said, "I'm way smarter than you."

"Uh—Pete." Jack tried to look thoughtful but ended up looking, he was certain, constipated.

"Pete. My daughter's fiancé."

"Yes—well, I've only met him a few times."

"So you don't like him?"

"Where did you get that idea?"

"If you've only met him a few times, it means that you don't like him."

Jack picked his fork back up and poked at his noodles. "It's not that I don't like him."

"Cassandra says he's an idiot."

"When did you talk to Cassandra?"

"I called her a little while ago from your office. You were in the john."

"Oh."

"She's not a happy camper."

Jack didn't respond—he was slowly demolishing each and every piece of pasta on his plate.

"She says that you're dating someone new."

"Not really dating—"

"I believe the word she used was—"

"Probably rude." Jack held up a hand. "I'd really rather not talk about it, if you don't mind, Jake. No offense."

Jacob returned to his pasta. "You know, I really do miss spaghetti—the Tok'ra are really more beans and rice people. But there's nothing like basil sauce and pasta out there in space—at least not that I've run into. That's one thing Earth has—great food."

Still, Jack didn't answer. He could feel Jacob watching him over the table, feel the other man's concern.

"I'm not judging you, Jack. I know that things haven't been easy." His voice was low enough that other people in the commissary couldn't hear him. "But I thought that the two of you had some kind of—understanding. I figured that you'd end up together, somehow."

Jack processed the fact that Jacob wasn't completely against his being with Carter. That was a little mind blowing, to say the least. When he could finally breathe again, Jack finally looked him in the eye. "Kinda hard when she's marrying someone else."

"Deed's not done yet."

"Jake—I—"

"I know. I know. And I know that I haven't made it easier. But you're good for her. And regardless of what else I know about you—which is a lot, mind you—I also know that you'd take care of her. No matter what." He took a sip of water while he let that sink in. "But apparently you've got a new girlfriend, and Sam's getting married to—Pat."

"Pete."

"Pete. Whatever." Jacob laid his fork on his empty plate. "I guess I'll just have to meet him. I'm sure that he's nice enough. I just hope that he can handle her. She's pretty high-maintenance. I mean—hey—she's my daughter, and I love her, but she can be a pain in the butt, right? It would take a big man to want to take on that responsibility."

He stood, pulling himself up to his full height. "Not just any man could do it, right, Jack? Only the best of men—the most honorable."

His Tok'ra boots didn't make a sound as he walked away.

----OOOOOOO----

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Carter took off with the Asgard, Teal'c and Bra'tac went off to capture Dakara, and Jacob monitored the losses of the Goa'uld with his stolen receiver thingy. Jack was making a conscious effort not to hover in the control room.

It seemed to annoy the Weeble—er—Harriman. And he didn't want to be around Jacob—he felt wrong, somehow.

So instead, he ended up in his office, shuffling papers. He tried to call Cassie several times, but she wasn't answering, damn caller ID. He tried not to think about Daniel, tried not to obsess about Carter and the Asgard working with reactivated Replicator cells. He decided to spend some time catching up with paperwork. Service requests, inventories, personnel forms, mission reports—anything to not think about his people, his life, the disasters he'd made of them all.

When his phone rang, he was shocked to glance at the clock and find it was past two in the morning.

He paused when he saw the caller ID, then answered it.

"Hey, Jack."

"Kerry."

"Big stuff going on, huh?"

"Yeah—looks like I won't make it out of here anytime soon."

"I'm going to miss you tonight."

"It's almost three in the morning—you already _have_ missed me."

She laughed and he heard the unmistakable sounds of sheets being shifted. "Well, I was just lying here, thinking that I hadn't spoken to you today."

"Like you said, big things happening."

"Can I know what it is?"

"I'm not sure you're cleared for this kind of stuff."

"Top level, baby."

"Not this high."

"Too bad." She shifted again. "I get nosy. Are you going to make it out later this morning?"

Jack glanced out of the window into the board room. He could see the reflection of the 'Gate in the observation window—it sat still, dark, and quiet.

"Probably not."

"Call me when you're able to?"

"Yeah."

A long pause stretched between them. He heard her shift the phone to her other ear, and her voice softened. "You know, Jack—I really like being with you. I wasn't expecting that."

He knew that it took him too long to answer. "Me too."

"I think we might have something. I know it's only been a little while that we've been seeing each other, but sometimes life happens like that—fast."

"It does."

"I mean, we've only been—together—twice, but I do miss you. You and that cute butt of yours. I could get used to this—thing—we have."

He closed his eyes and pictured her, lying in that mussed up hotel bed, her dark curls falling in a riot around her shoulders. She didn't sleep in much, and he knew that the satin of her skin would be warmed by the sheets—the down comforter. He suddenly felt cold.

"Yeah, me too."

"G'night, Jack."

"'Night."

He hung up and stared at the phone, then picked up his pen. Expenses reports waited.

But traitorously, his mind flashed back to Jacob, to Carter. Jacob had spoken about Carter's being difficult to maintain. Jack had known that from the moment he met her. Her brilliance took second seat only to her passion—and that was a difficult mix. She was inherently fair, uncompromisingly intelligent, and had a capacity to over think everything. The man who took her on needed to be determined enough to deal with all of that in one beautiful, slightly insecure, package. Pete was one of those New Age guys—touchy feely while pretending to be tough. But he lacked the inner strength to be able to cipher out the more intricate portions of Sam—to really understand her. Jack knew without a doubt that he underestimated her—and would be more than a little shocked to see her in her true element, surrounded by Jaffa, mowing them down, saving the day.

Jack smiled a little when he thought of how a New Age guy would react when he discovered that his wife could do him some serious harm without even thinking too hard.

But then that brought him to Kerry Johnson.

Kerry was easy to like—easy to be with. She was with the CIA—more of an analyst than a spy-type. She knew _theoretically_ what Jack was all about—what the program meant to the safety of the world, but he doubted that she truly had any idea of what he did—what he'd done. Kerry was like Sara in that regard—she didn't _want_ to know details. For all her spouting about gathering intelligence and her knowledge of the program, she'd never been through the 'Gate—couldn't imagine the dangers. Her idea of his job was idealized. Sanitized. Homogenized.

A while ago, Cassie had confessed that Sam had nightmares. Jack had them, too. He doubted that either Pete or Kerry woke up in terror, the smells of alien prisons, the sounds of alien tortures confounding them.

It was hard to offer comfort when you didn't understand the torment.

And Jack admitted to himself that whatever release he was currently finding with Kerry—whatever pleasure he extracted from the relationship, it couldn't develop into anything deeper. She couldn't understand where he'd been, what he'd been.

Just like Pete didn't and couldn't understand Carter.

He bit his lip, staring at the pen in his hands, wishing like hell that he was the honorable man that Jacob had been talking about. Wishing that he had the guts to confront the issue straight on. Wishing that he had, long ago, had the actual conversation that had been necessary, instead of dancing around the truth for so many years. He'd told her he'd cared about her—_had_ to tell her in order to prove he wasn't a za'tarc. But he'd never taken it further. Never trusted her enough to ask her—beg her—to wait, to believe in him.

It had been dishonest, agreeing to leave it in the room. An honorable man would have gathered her close and offered himself, regardless of the consequences. How often did a man have that opportunity with a woman like Samantha Carter?

And in the midst of this thought, fate threw him a curveball. His office lit up, and she beamed in, courtesy of a desperate Asgard.


	14. In Passing

In Passing

"So, we're still vulnerable to the replicators?"

She nodded. She was angry—he knew Carter's body language well enough to know that—she was breathing shallowly and practically stomping her foot with frustration.

Some guys liked women in little black dresses, but O'Neill suddenly realized that Carter's version—black tank top, black combat vest, black BDU pants, and black weapon—really did things for him. They should sell this ensemble at that Victoria's place in the mall.

Mentally, he shook himself out of the gutter. "But Thor should be okay?"

"I don't know, sir." She shook her head. "I hope so."

She flicked the safety on her weapon and unzipped the vest, and he could tell that she was trying not to pace. "So, why don't you go and get your gear stowed and have some—" he glanced at his watch, "breakfast?"

She closed her eyes and dropped her head for a moment. "Is my dad still around?"

"Probably sleeping."

"Right." She raked her top lip with her bottom teeth and nodded. "Sleeping. Because it's early in the morning."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Uh—yeah."

She stood in front of him for another minute. He watched as she struggled for something—something she wanted but was nervous about. She finally planted both feet in front of his desk and cradled her weapon in front of her. "Uh, sir?"

"Yes, Carter?"

"I've been meaning to ask you a favor."

"A favor?"

"And I know that this is really out there—"

"Okay." Cautious, he placed both hands on the desk in front of him, folded on top of each other.

"And I know that this isn't the best time to ask."

"Carter." His tone told her to get on with it.

"I'd like for my Dad to meet Pete."

Jack simply sat, waiting for the statement to somehow involve him.

She misunderstood his silence and waved the hand not holding her gun. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have asked." Turning, she headed for his door.

"No—Carter." He stood. "Hold up."

She turned back towards him slowly, her teeth working on that lip again.

"Why do you need a favor from me for that? Your dad is welcome to leave the base and go wherever he wants to go."

She blinked a few times, then breathed deeply. "Dad didn't seem to want to leave here—something about the device that he brought—and I don't want the meeting to happen in public, anyway."

"Why not?" Intrigued, O'Neill stuck his hands in his pants' pockets. "They're both adults."

She tweaked her head to one side and a wrinkle formed on the bridge of her nose. "I just don't know what to expect."

"Carter, I'm sure it will be fine. Take them to O'Malley's and they'll bond over a pint."

"Sir, it's my _dad_. You know how he can be."

Jack did. Jacob Carter could be a sarcastic, overbearing, judgmental little man. Maybe that's why Jack liked him so much, aside from his propensity towards inducing Jack's incoherent babbling. "You don't think Pete and your Dad are going to get along?"

She didn't answer, just kept worrying at her lip with her teeth.

Jack finally took pity on her and shrugged. "Whatever. If you want to bring Pete here to meet your Dad, go ahead."

Her relief was obvious. "Thank you, sir."

He shrugged again. "I'll arrange it with security."

She grinned—her wide, dimpled, life-changing smile, and he wished profoundly that it had more to do with him and less to do with the shrub. "Again, sir, thank you."

"In the meantime, go get changed and get something to eat. I know that Thor doesn't provide much in the way of people food."

She nodded, turned, and then hesitated before peeking back over her shoulder. She caught his gaze. "Join me, sir?"

But he found that his courage failed him there—and he waved a hand and tossed her a smile accompanied by a little shake of his head. "Paperwork." He sat back down behind his desk. Dismissively. And he fervently hated this situation that had taken away not only his hope of _something_ with her, but also the only thing that he'd had—a friendship.

She faded a bit, but nodded. "Of course, sir."

----OOOOOOO----

He had quarters on base—a bunker, really, where he had his own place to sleep, a closet to hang some extra clothes. He hadn't spent that many nights there since Cassie had moved in. He'd practically lived in it when he'd first ascended to the General chair.

Tonight, he fled there. He shrugged out of his BDU shirt and fell down onto the bed, propping his boots up on the metal bar at the foot. He felt tired—and every single one of his fifty odd years was simultaneously biting him in the butt. He scrubbed his hands over his face, then took a long, deep breath and tried to relax.

But images kept popping into his fron. Daniel—where the hell was he? Carter, walking down the aisle: vows, and garters, and bouquets. Cassie, shouting at him from behind her multi-colored hair. Jacob, cryptic, obscure—blathering about noodles and honor.

He reminded himself to think about Kerry. That wasn't a good sign. But once it was there the thought morphed into memories of the night before—eager hands and breathy sighs. He breathed in, content to let the thoughts wash over him for a moment or two.

Until a rap sounded on his door. Followed by a head poking in. "Sir?"

"Go away, Walter."

A pause. "Sir, it's kinda important."

He groaned, then opened one eye, focusing it beadily on the Weeble. "What is it, Walter?"

"A wormhole just formed—and Ba'al's here."

"The real thing, or as seen on TV?"

"He's a hologram."

"What does he want?"

"Uh—to talk to you, sir."

O'Neill banged one heel against the footrail of his bed. "Hang up on the bastard."

Walters let out a courtesy laugh. "Yeah—that's not possi—"

"I'll come talk to him soon, Harriman. Why don't you chat with him until I do?"

"What should I talk to him about?"

O'Neill sat up, his tired muscles bunching under the black t shirt he wore. He stretched his arms out, and then rotated his head. Finally, he answered. "I don't know, Walter, why don't you ask him if he golfs?"

"Seriously?"

"Scoot, airman."

Walter scooted.

O'Neill glanced at his clock. He'd actually checked out for a few minutes—gotten nearly an hour of sleep. He stood and retrieved his BDU shirt from the floor, and shook it out before pulling it back on.

He debated only briefly before heading out of his bunker and toward the commissary.

It wouldn't do to meet a System Lord on an empty stomach.

----OOOOOOO----

He managed to stall for around 20 minutes. Long enough for Ba'al to become seriously agitated. O'Neill grinned as he saw the blatant annoyance on the face of the holographic System Lord. Ah—the simple joys in life. His heart was full.

Ba'al had made his ridiculous request, and then Jack had sent Jacob and Carter to Dakara, to try to destroy the weapon there. As usual, the Carters had gummed up the plan by wanting to futz with it, instead. And even though he'd gotten to pull out his trusty P-90 and blow some replicators to pieces, which was ALWAYS fun, he was really glad when the wave shot out through the 'Gate and reduced them all to what basically amounted to shrapnel.

So now everyone was back, safe and sound. Except Daniel, who they still hadn't heard from, and Teal'c who had reported that the Jaffa were united and free, and would be staying on Dakara for the time being—to help with setting up the Jaffa government.

All that remained was the clean-up. The base was overrun with these creepy little replicator bits. It was like cat litter—it got everywhere. Most of the airmen on base had been armed with brooms and dustpans to gather it all up. And, because he thought it was funny, he'd had it all poured into large plastic barrels and placed in Carter's lab.

That was how he ended up walking beside her in the hall right now. She'd asked him what to do with them.

He'd been struck with a certain poignancy that she hadn't gotten the joke—the reference to several years before when she'd been fascinated by the few blocks that they'd pulled off that Ruskie submarine. He still recalled her hunched over her microscope, studying the blocks. She'd been excited—like a kid with a new toy. He'd walked into her lab and invited her fishing—again—and again she'd declined. But the look on her face—the sheer exhilaration of discovery—he'd found that more tantalizing than all the sultry poses in all the women's magazines that Sara used to pore over. He had been intensely disappointed that Carter had chosen the science over his cabin.

And even more torn when she'd come after him to tell him that their leave had been rescinded.

He'd thought she'd changed her mind. And oh, so briefly, the heavens had opened.

Thinking of that today, he'd sent her buckets of the blocks—barrels of the pieces that made up the deadly little critters—but she hadn't understood his reference. Instead, she chatted about Thor, and Daniel, and the moment when the bugs had frozen, giving them the opportunity they'd needed to recalibrate and reload. The moment from years ago was over—gone—done.

So he'd retreated to his office, with her still talking, him still answering. He'd sat down behind his desk, expecting her to finish and leave. But she'd just stood there.

"Anything else?" He had asked. Even to him, he sounded abrupt.

"No, sir." Hesitant, maybe a little hurt, she'd sounded.

He sensed her lingering. He wanted to ask her what she wanted, but didn't want to know the answer. And he was expecting a call from Kerry. She'd left a message on his office line around the same time they'd set off the self destruct. He wondered in a moment of weirdness if there was an outgoing message to that effect. "We're sorry we're unable to answer your call. The self destruct is about to go off. We will return your call as soon as we are able to, if any of us are still alive."

So he'd taken the coward's way again and reached for a mission report.

She'd taken the hint and left.

----OOOOOOO----

Kerry called while he was reading a report about geological formations on P4C-whatever. He gratefully picked up the phone.

"Hey."

"Hey, handsome."

"What's going on?"

"Well, I did a few interviews this morning, compiled some data, and went shopping. Want to know what I bought?"

"Is it classified?"

"Absolutely."

"Is it plant, mineral, or animal?"

"It's definitely animal."

Jack smiled into the receiver. He liked this part of the relationship—liked having someone to banter with. Someone who didn't expect too much from him. Someone that wasn't Daniel. Banter with Daniel never ended up in bed.

"How so?"

"Well, it's leopard print."

"Does it bite?"

"Only if you want it to."

Jack laughed softly.

Kerry shuffled something—he could hear papers or something in the background. She hmmed for a second, and then said, "It just may need to be secured—or tied up—something. Perhaps you could help me with that."

"Perhaps I could."

"Perhaps it needs a different venue."

"Say, my place?"

"It would say yes." She shuffled things again, and he heard her shift the receiver. "But will Cassie be there? I don't want to cause any problems."

Jack had told her about his and Cassie's fight. "No—she's staying with one of her college friends."

"So we can play."

"Yep. I'll grill."

"Are you any good?"

"No. But I try really hard."

She laughed. Kerry had a throaty laugh—very sexy. He leaned back in his chair and listened to her. "Well." She said, "Sounds like a plan."

"Will your purchase require anything special to eat?"

That laugh sounded again, and Jack let it wash over him. He liked it—a lot—too much—he really enjoyed being the center of this kind of attention.

Kerry sighed into the phone and answered him.

"Only you."

----OOOOOOO----

His bed felt different—better—with a woman in it.

He had realized somewhere in the middle that he'd never had a woman here. In any of the implications of that statement. He had bought the house directly following his divorce from Sara, and his lack of companionship had been woefully noted through the following years. Myriad excuses could be made for this lack—but in reality, Jack had just not met anyone that he liked well enough to bring home. Or anyone that he was allowed to bring home.

But here he lay, tangled up with Kerry, her purchase still miraculously intact, although a bit askew. She was sleeping, the house was quiet, and Jack was content.

He hadn't felt the guilt this time. Just satisfaction.

She snored slightly, but that could have been from the weird angle she'd fallen asleep in—laying half on top of him, her head twisted oddly, both hands tucked under his arm. It didn't look comfortable. He shifted to try and rectify that, but only succeeded in waking her up.

"Hmmm." She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his chest.

"Go back to sleep."

"You too." She opened one brown eye and peered at him from under her riotous hair. "You need your rest, General."

"Why?"

"Because I have to go back to DC for a few days, and I want to get my fill of Jack before I go."

"You didn't tell me that earlier."

"I can't stand to think about it. I'm going to miss you."

He watched as she moved into a more comfortable position. She shoved some hair behind her ear and grinned at him. "I just can't get over how good you are at this."

"At what?"

"This—" She motioned to their positions. "The bed part of the relationship." She looked up at him, lazily drew her hand down his jaw. "It's like you've been celibate for years—saving your energy or something."

"I kind of have."

"No crap?" She pushed herself up with a hand on his chest. "Really? You haven't been with anyone for that long?"

"Nope. Divorce was final eight years ago—and there were two other—moments. They didn't last long, and never here in my house." He decided not to tell her that both of them occurred off world. He needed a few secrets, after all.

"So. _Wow_. That's unbelievable."

"Why?"

She shrugged, sitting up in bed, curling her legs under her. "Because you're—well, look at you. You're like some action hero dude—Testosterone City."

"What's that mean?"

"I read your mission reports and was ready to find some old curmudgeon of a guy with fake teeth and diminished neural function, and here you are instead." She thumped his abdomen. "Rocking my world."

"That's such a cliché." He caught her hand and held it, tracing her fingertips.

She smiled and cocked a brow. "I know it's cliché, but it's also true. You're just what a girl needs. I can't believe that you wouldn't have a constant parade of women through here."

"Maybe it's just you." He poked her. "Maybe I'm really bad at it, but you don't know because you're bad at it, too. Your lack leads you to judge poorly."

"No—believe me. I usually get what I want. And I wanted you—so, here we are. But surely you've wanted _someone_ during all those years. You've had two other relationships?"

"Short ones."

"In eight years?"

He nodded, and brought her hand to his mouth, pressing light kisses to her fingertips. She faltered for a moment before pulling her hand away. "Don't distract me like that. I really have to know this—I warned you—I'm nosy."

Jack sighed and sat up in bed, thumping a few pillows and settling them between his back and the headboard. "What exactly are you asking?"

"Who were the other two women?"

"It doesn't matter." His tone closed the 'who' part of the questioning.

She rolled her eyes. "Okay. Did you meet them at work?"

"You could say that."

"They aren't soldiers, are they?"

He faltered, then his lips flattened. "You know that regulations prohibit that."

"Because there was this ridiculous report that Kinsey gave about you and one of your subordinate officers—but the names were blacked out. Even unfounded, it got classified _deep_."

"There was nothing to that." His voice got low, flat, and dangerous.

Kerry noticed, and her eyes widened innocently. She put a hand on his thigh and squeezed gently. "Jack, I'm just trying to figure you out."

He groaned, swiping at his face with his hands. "I don't wanna be figured out."

Kerry leaned forward and fingered his hair. "I want to know you. We've gotten together—we've _gotten_ _together_. But I still feel like you're keeping a huge part of yourself away from me."

Jack stayed silent for three or four breaths. "Kerry, I like you. I enjoy your company. I've been busy for the past several years—and it's not like I haven't been attracted to people—it's just that what I do sucks a lot out of a guy, and there hasn't been much left at the end of the day to devote to a relationship. And I'm not a love 'em and leave 'em type."

She considered his words with a careful smile on her face. "I think that there are all sorts of things hidden in there, Jack O'Neill." She came up on her knees and framed his face in her hands. "You won't be able to deter me from finding them out."

He pulled her across his lap and then captured her mouth with a kiss, and she stopped asking questions for another hour.

Turns out he was pretty good at deterring her.


	15. Passing Notes

Passing Notes

_Jack,_

_I got here fine, thank you for asking._

_Three days. I've got meetings at the Pentagon tomorrow, then some with a nasty little character from the NID the next day. The day after that, I'm back in the Springs. Shall I go hunting for some more animalia?_

_Kerry_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Kerry,_

_Would that nasty little character be a guy named Woolsey? _

_He's a doofus. Beware!_

_And animalia is good—but no gophers. Gophers are gross._

_J_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Jack,_

_I'll be working all day—I'll email you again when I can._

_Kerry_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Kerry,_

_Don't work too hard, and remember to eat. You need to keep up your strength for when you get back._

_J_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_General Hotness,_

_I have followed orders and remembered to eat lunch. And now I'm writing to thank you for taking care of me so well._

_Kerry_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Kerry,_

_Someone has to—you cerebral types are often not very bright. But it's all right. You compensate just fine in other areas._

_J_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Jack,_

_I'll show you compensation._

_K_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Kerry,_

_Oh, I certainly hope so._

_J_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Jack_

_You were right. Woolsey is a dangerous little man. He actually asked me to inform him about any disallowed relationships between the officers at the SGC. He told me that inappropriate involvements were suspected between you and a member of your former team. Were you and Teal'c really a couple? How very progressive of you._

_That somehow makes you sexier._

_Oh well—don't ask, don't tell._

_No gophers at the animal store—just something really little made by thousands of worms. Did I tell you it was little?_

_Can't wait._

_Kerry_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Kerry,_

_Right. Teal'c and me. Not in this universe._

_I'm more partial to Earthlings. Daniel, now. . ._

_J_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Jack,_

_I'll be on the red eye instead of the flight in the morning. Shall I just come to your house?_

_Kerry_

_----OOOOOOO----_

_Kerry._

_Yes._

_J_

----OOOOOOO----

She'd shown up around 4 a.m. He'd been awake ever since. Not that he was complaining. The worms had done their work well. But now it was 10-ish, and he'd been doing paperwork for entirely too long.

Jack sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on the budget before him. This was the part of the job that he hated most. Paperwork. Budgets. Reports. Well, this, and the not going off world part. On a positive note, though, not being off world meant that he could choose the whens and wheres of certain dates.

He'd found a perk.

Jack pushed the budget aside and found himself smiling at it. Perks, indeed.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He had a meeting later with some new recruits, then a staff meeting with the accounting and human resource people on Level 4. Those things always threatened to put him to sleep, but today, when he was dragging anyway, he was more than likely to snooze.

Caffeine. Sugar.

He needed both.

He stood and exited his office, heading towards the elevator where he punched the correct buttons. Level 22—Commissary.

Once there, he made a beeline for the coffee array, then changed his mind and pulled a large plastic cup from the dispenser and got himself a soda, instead. And, passing by the dessert section, he snagged himself the largest piece of cake he could find.

He needed to keep his strength up, and you couldn't go wrong with cake.

He'd meant to take his snack back to his office—another one of the perks of being "The Man" was that you got to leave the commissary with food on plates instead of just shoved into your pockets—but something caught his eye. A balding head, a brown leather shirt, weary, drooping shoulders.

Jacob.

Jack stopped short. He looked around, but Carter wasn't in the commissary. Jacob sat alone.

On an impulse, Jack crossed to the Tokra's table.

"You know, it's indicative of a weirdo to eat alone."

Jacob looked up at the General. His mouth jerked in what might have been a smile. "Takes one to know."

"Want some company?"

"I guess." Jacob gestured towards the empty chair opposite him. Jack put down his cake and drink, pulled out the chair, and plunked himself down.

"You look wiped, Jacob, pardon the honesty."

"I have to admit," Jacob nodded, "I've felt better."

"What's going on? Is something wrong?" Jack gestured vaguely towards Jacob's head.

Jacob gave him a real smile— forced, but real. "Nah. Just tired."

"Cake?"

"No thanks. Selmac doesn't really go for sweets."

Jack nodded, and then dug in.

"So, I guess Sam asked you if she could bring Pete here tomorrow."

"Yeah." Jack answered around a mouthful of chocolate marble.

"What should I expect?"

"From who, Pete or Carter?"

Jacob tweaked an eyebrow. "Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Call my little girl by her last name all the time?"

"Dunno. Just do."

"I gave her a perfectly good _first_ name, too, you know."

Jack looked up at him from over another forkful of chocolate marble cake. "I know."

"So why don't you use it?"

"Jacob—I" But he couldn't choke out any words. O'Neill was rapidly beginning to regret having sat down.

Jacob took a sip of water from the bottle sitting in front of him. He cocked his head and regarded Jack stoically, as the younger man took a large bite of cake. "When she marries this guy, are you going to call her 'Shanahan'?"

Jack froze mid-chew. The thought of that—of calling her something other than 'Carter'—of her even _having_ a different name—that was just wrong, somehow. He had, at times, fantasized about calling her 'Sam'. He'd jokingly used her full name from time to time—usually when she was so obviously being 'the girl' of the group that it made everyone else a little sick. But '_Shanahan'_?

That was just _wrong_.

He tried to chew, but found that he'd lost control of his facial muscles. He attempted to swallow, but couldn't quite get the mouthful of cake to go down.

So he took a large swig of soda and forced it. Damn, that hurt. He choked at little when he glanced back up to see Jacob staring at him, openly fascinated.

"Are you going to live, or do you need the Heimlich?"

Jack pounded a little on his chest with his fist. The cake had gotten stuck somewhere in his esophagus. "Get out the paddles."

Jacob grinned. "I thought so."

Jack took a deep breath and then glanced down at the plate of cake, the fork, his soda. He placed the fork on the plate and cautiously slid them to the side of the table. His appetite had seriously waned. But Jacob had thrown him a curve ball—he'd never once thought about Carter's not being _Carter_ anymore. No one else called her that. That was his. And like the woman herself, he was going to lose her as soon as this marriage turned from hazy, distant reality to clear, now reality.

"You hadn't thought that quite through, had you?"

O'Neill licked his lips and found a bit of frosting in one corner. He wiped it off with a finger and transferred it to a napkin. "The cake seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Jack."

The current General looked at the former General. "Jake—I don't know what you want me to say to that."

"She's making a mistake."

"And I'm supposed to tell her that?"

"Someone needs to."

"I can't, Jacob."

Jacob shrugged, "Then I guess she's going to marry him."

Jack looked around, and was amazed and relieved to see that nobody else was listening in on their conversation. They were being given a wide berth by the staff and airmen. He turned back to Jacob. "What do you want me to do?"

Jacob shrugged again. "I don't know. She's stubborn."

"She is that."

"She's also tired of being alone." The Tok'ra glared at Jack. "And seeing as how she's had no other offers. . ." his voice trailed away.

"Jacob. You know why."

"No, I don't." The elder Carter leaned forward and balanced himself on his elbows on the table. "I don't understand how you haven't made this work."

"We're in the _military_."

"And that's supposed to absolve you of letting her flounder for so long?"

"Jacob, no offense, but I don't see why we're having this conversation." Jack stood and made as if to leave, but then turned back and faced the Tok'ra. "She's a big girl—she's making her own decisions. She's made the choice—not me. She moved on—not me."

"Dammit, Jack, I want you to listen to me!" Jacob rose out of his seat, slapping a hand on the table top. The other people in the commissary were starting to take note of them, but the Tok'ra didn't seem to care. He held out a hand to O'Neill. "Sit back down."

Jack stood still, for a minute, thinking. Finally, he jerked his head toward the door. "Walk with me."

Jacob took a deep breath and righted his clothing, then stepped around the table and followed Jack out into the hall.

They walked to the elevator, where Jack summarily dismissed SG-6, who was suited up and ready to go to M2C-wherever. The two men entered the elevator, and Jack waited for the doors to close before pressing the stop button. He turned to Jacob.

"Say what you will." He thrust a hand forward. "Have your say."

"Jack, we don't know how much time we have. We never know what may happen. I would hate for you to sit in your General's chair and let her leave your life."

"I'm not letting her do anything—she's making this choice all on her own."

"You keep saying that, but you know how hollow that argument is. She's only making this choice because you haven't given her any other options."

"And what should those options be, Jacob? Why don't you tell me how many times you sent someone to the brig for inappropriate fraternization?" O'Neill crossed his arms and leaned against the wall of the elevator.

"There are bigger things, Jack. More important things."

"Do, tell."

Jacob dropped his head and rubbed his temples with both hands simultaneously. When he finally lifted his head, he looked ashen, fading. "Has Sam ever told you about her time alone on the Prometheus?"

Jack hesitated before answering. "She told me she was injured. I read the mission reports."

"Okay. Well you know she had a concussion. She didn't include some things in the mission report, but she told me about them."

"What things?" Jack remembered back to when Cassie was still speaking with him—she'd said something about Sam having nightmares. Jack knew they were about Fifth and the replicators, but he didn't think that the Prometheus incident had been nearly as traumatic. She hadn't acted as if it had been—she'd come back and practically pranced right out and found herself a brand new Pete.

"She hallucinated, Jack. She told me that she saw the people most important to her. Daniel, and Teal'c, and me." He waited for a moment before adding, "And you."

"Daniel and Teal'c spoke with her—offering her advice on how to get out of the predicament. I apparently told her that she had to move on with her life—getting rid of the things that wouldn't bring her happiness."

"Fatherly advice." Jack shrugged one shoulder. "Naturally she'd think that you wanted her to be happy."

"Don't you want to know what you said to her?"

"Go save your ass?"

"Besides that." Jacob waited for Jack to nod to him before continuing. "You told her to move on. You told her to go find someone else."

"So this whole problem is my fault?" Jack raised his brows. "And not just a _real_ me—but a _hallucinatory_ me?"

"When she's only marrying this idiot because you haven't given her an option—then yes. It is."

Jack couldn't answer. In his mind flashed all the images he'd carefully stored away over the years—the little bits of time when he and Carter'd had a 'moment'. The hug they'd shared after her hypnosis the first time Daniel had died, her fingers gliding over his bare abdomen after his time in Hathor's sarcophagus, his own fingers tracing over her satiny skin as he'd disconnected the wires in Hathor's SGC. She'd taken to glancing sideways at him and he knew exactly what she was thinking. She'd kept him alive in Antarctica. There had been those weeks they'd been able to be themselves—being stamped as Jonah and Thera hadn't been nearly as cruel as having to return to being Colonel and Major. The armbands fiasco, the Za'tarc confession, the single, powerful kiss he'd stolen before jumping back in time yet again. So many, many moments—he had them all stored. All saved away in the most private, beloved place in himself.

Whole portions of his life—measured in weeks, days, minutes, spare glances, heartbeats—were taken up only with Carter. No wonder he felt as if he were being torn apart at the thought of her being another man's wife. Living, sleeping, loving, having children with—someone not him. It was beyond comprehension. Beyond endurance.

Jacob saw the pain in Jack's eyes. "I know that you love her."

Jack still stood, arms crossed in front of him, his eyes downward.

"I know that you love her." Jacob repeated. "And I can't be here for her forever. And I just want her to be happy."

Still Jack stood silently, listening.

"She can't be happy with a man who doesn't deserve her."

"I _don't_ deserve her." O'Neill still didn't look up, only raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

"You do, Jack. And she deserves to be with a man who has known her at her best and worst, and still worships her."

"Jacob—I don't—what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to fix it. I want you to take care of her. She's going to need you soon."

Still, O'Neill shook his head. He had no more words. None at all. All the pain he'd felt and gone through and fought through in the past few months had hit him again—all at once. And he felt dirty, and manipulated, and angry, and unbelievably sad again—all at once. And he felt that he'd both betrayed and been betrayed. And he couldn't have spoken, or he'd have shattered.

But Jacob took his silence as a refusal. He brought himself up to his full height and reached behind him to press the 'door open' button. "I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry for wasting your time."

The door opened behind him and he exited, turning after a step to see Jack still standing, broken, at the back wall. "I guess she doesn't mean that much to you, after all."

And his face disappeared between the closing elevator doors.


	16. Passing Over

Passing Over

He left the mountain early.

After the confrontation with Jacob, he just couldn't concentrate—an act which, for O'Neill, was sketchy even on the best days. He'd read the same paragraph of his speech twice at the new recruit orientation, and then at the budget and human resources meeting, he'd spaced out over the entire section devoted to replacing the off world sand-colored BDUs with the new digitally enhanced version. They'd asked his opinion, and he'd told them that he'd have to see the tapes.

When he realized what they'd actually been talking about, he stood up abruptly and left. He hadn't even gone back to his office for his stuff. Keys and wallet were all he needed to drop by Neelan's on the way home and pick up some Guinness, anyway.

And crutch, or not, he was really in the mood for a good, old fashioned bender. The kind of drink-until-you're-incapable-of-opening-another-one binge that he hadn't allowed himself since he'd recognized that the drinking was becoming habitual rather than casual.

So he'd hopped up into the Super Duty and fired it up, driving the few miles to the liquor store without even being cognizant that he had. But then he'd sat in the parking lot, staring at the blinking 'Open' sign, wondering what the hell had brought him here. He needed an escape, an outlet. But he knew that this—oblivion—he'd been seeking, wasn't it.

It almost hurt, to know that release sat just within the ad-encrusted doors, and he couldn't let himself take it.

Still, it had taken several long, hard minutes to turn the engine back over and reverse his way out of the parking lot. And then he'd driven aimlessly for a long time through the Springs, finally coming to a stop outside a long, gray, low bank of buildings. He didn't know what made him feel weaker—needing the beer, or needing the good Doctor.

But he got out of the truck anyway.

Brittany was back behind her desk—along with her omnipresent gum. She looked up and grinned. "General!"

"Is she here?" He said, without preamble.

"Well, yeah, but—she's got a couple in there." Brittany glanced towards the doctor's office and then leaned towards the glass conspiratorially. "Big marital problems."

"Does she have someone after?"

Brittany looked down at her schedule. "On the half hour—but no one 'til then."

Jack twisted his arm to peer at his watch. "I'll wait."

"Wow." Brittany breathed. "Crisis?"

O'Neill ignored her and went to sit down. Before he could, however, Doc Polly's door opened and out came a middle aged man, followed by a much younger woman. The woman was crying profusely. "I just want to thank you, Doctor Biago." She sniffled. "I think I can endure now. Endure the pain of being neglected and ignored."

Jack glanced at the doctor, whose expression was one of muffled skepticism. "Remember to journal your feelings, Amanda, and communication is always the key."

Amanda burst into a new flood of tears and turned, throwing her arms around the doctor's neck. "Bless your heart, Doctor Biago! You have a gift!"

Doc Polly patted her on the back and then ushered them out of the office. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned to Jack. "Well. The prodigal returns."

"Do you have a minute?"

"I doubt one will do, but we'll start with it, anyway."

She led him back, adjusting pillows and furniture as she went. "Drama queens are always the worst of the lot."

He stopped in the doorway and watched as she retrieved a yellow legal pad from her desk. "Should you really be talking about your other patients this way?"

"Well," Doc Polly dropped down onto the chaise. "Since she aired her laundry in the waiting room, I think you probably already know that she's a drama queen."

Jack forced a smile. "Young wife like that. Older husband." He shrugged. "Lotsa problems."

"Why is age their issue?"

O'Neill could feel the doctor watch him cross the room and sit in his tall backed chair. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. "Young wife, doesn't know what she's getting into. Marries for money, and finds out he's rich because he works a lot, and then feels neglected. Simple enough."

"Jump to conclusions much?"

"Usually." Jack tried to play it light. "You're not the only gifted one around here."

"Well, General, that particular gift isn't going to help you much."

He had no answer for that.

"Speaking of helping, I have this wonderful thing called an appointment book. How it works is you call ahead and choose which day you'd like to come and see me, and then we're both prepared."

"There is no preparation for my life." O'Neill spoke more to himself than to her. "I'm not sure there's any help for it, either."

"Wow. Self pity. _That's_ fun." The doctor nodded her head slightly. "So why don't you tell me what brings you here today."

"I have a girlfriend." He scowled. "Although a guy at my age having a girlfriend—what do they call them nowadays? Women friends? Partners? Whatever. I seem to have one."

"That sounds like a good thing." The doctor picked up a legal pad and turned some sheets toward the back so that she could take notes on a fresh one. "Where did you meet her?"

"In a bar—but we discovered that we actually work together."

"Who made the move?"

"She did."

"Did that make you uncomfortable?"

"Everything having to do with women right now makes me uncomfortable."

"But let's focus on this particular time."

"We were both sitting at the bar, eating our dinners, and she started talking to me. Nothing more interesting than that."

"And how did that make you feel?"

"The wings?"

"Jack." Doc Polly tapped her pen against her legal pad.

"It felt good. It felt really good."

"Why?"

"I suppose you want a deep well-thought-out answer right here."

"I want _your_ answer, whatever that might be."

Jack had actually thought about this before. "It felt good because she wanted me."

"Were you attracted to her?"

"She's beautiful and funny." O'Neill shrugged. "So, yeah, any guy would have been."

"What attracted you more—the beauty part, or her obvious attraction to you?"

The doctor waited patiently while O'Neill processed this. He studied his shoes as he did so, his face falling into an irascible frown. "I suppose that would make me really shallow to say that she had a great rack?"

Doc Polly smiled and tweaked an eyebrow. "I guess that would make you a _guy_. But a great rack doesn't necessarily rate a call back. You've seen one, and all that."

"My Dad used to say, 'you've seen _one_, you've seen them _both_'."

Doc Polly chuckled. "Okay. I think I would have liked your Dad. But go on."

Jack paused before answering. "I think that in the current state of things, any moderately intelligent, moderately attractive woman would have served my purposes."

"How emotionally attached are you?"

"It's only been a few weeks."

"We've already established the fact that you're not run of the mill. A few weeks for you is substantial."

Jack licked his lips. "I like her."

"Do you like her enough?"

"For what?"

"To give up everything else."

His deck shoes needed to be replaced. He could see the stitching unraveling around one big toe, and the heels were worn. But they were comfortable, so he hadn't done it yet. That, and it took time, and time was something he was always short of these days. And shoes being women. . .

"She suffices." Jack glanced up to the see the good doctor watching him. "For now."

"And is that enough for you?"

Jack knew the answer to the soles of those worn shoes. Hadn't he already recognized that? But people stayed together for convenience's sake all the time—it didn't matter what that convenience was. "Right now she's providing an escape for me."

"Escape from what?"

"From other crap—from other people."

"The one getting married?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"How are you doing with that?"

The look on Jack's face was answer enough.

"Okay, then. Does this woman know the complications involved with that?"

"No. I don't think so."

Doc Polly tapped her pen again. "And for exactly how long is this other woman going to serve as your stand-in for the one that you really want?"

Jack's lips pulled tight. His jaw clenched and unclenched rhythmically.

"Is it fair to her?"

O'Neill scrubbed his face with his hands. "No."

"Jack, I normally don't give people advice. I'm supposed to gently lead them to where they need to go mentally, emotionally." She clasped her hands in front of her and leaned forward, mirroring his pose. "But what the hell. Time is short." She paused. "You have an innate morality to you. You're one of those people for whom everyday decisions—a simple fling, for example—has long lasting spiritual connotations. I'm not talking religious here—I'm talking _your_ spirit—psyche, soul—whatever you want to call it. I don't think that this new relationship is going to give you what you want, because what you want is to be with Sam. And you're trying to do the moral thing, by stepping back and letting her marry the shrub."

Jack smiled briefly. He hadn't remembered calling him that in front of the doctor. Apparently, it had snuck into their conversations somehow without him noticing.

The doctor must have read his smile. "Daniel calls him that, too." She laid her hands flat together, like a young child praying, the pen sandwiched between them. "Anyway, what I was saying is that the moral thing here is nebulous. Is it moral to let her go, or is it the right thing to do to let her know in no uncertain terms what you want? To give her that information before she makes this decision?"

"I've been asked that twice recently. Her father said basically that same thing this morning."

Doc Polly's eyebrows skyrocketed. "Wow. _Dad_ even thinks so. That's big."

"Especially if you knew her dad."

"So, if you're looking for meaningless sex, then bully for you. Go on as you are." She sat back up straight on the chaise and capped her pen. "But I think that if you let this wedding happen without even trying—if you give up—you'll live with that regret all the rest of your life. And regret like that breaks people."

Jack stood up, but she fixed him in place with her gaze. "That kind of regret _will_ break you."

He waited until she blinked before walking out.

----OOOOOOO----

Kerry was sitting on his front porch when he arrived home. She had a paper bag sitting on the step beside her. Poking out of the open top he could see a bottle of wine and a loaf of French Bread. Apparently, even paper bags could be clichés.

It wasn't that he wasn't happy to see her—it was just that he wasn't happy to see her.

He really had wanted to come home and sit for a while on his deck, watching his hummingbirds, flicking what—coke bottle tops, maybe—at the cats. Not that Coke bottle tops were as accurate as Guinness caps—but hey—make do, right? And he really, really needed to think. You couldn't do that with Kerry around. She filled a person's head.

"Hi, handsome." She called while he climbed out of his truck. "I thought I'd cook."

Jack forced another smile. "Okay." He passed her to insert his key in the door. He knew that she'd positioned herself for a kiss, but he'd avoided her. She'd cast him an odd look, then stood to follow him, hefting the package in her arms and tossing her hair out of her eyes.

They trailed into the kitchen, and stopped short.

Cassie stood at the refrigerator, holding a soda, and Craig sat at the table, a sandwich on a paper plate in front of him.

"Oh. Hi." Cassie glanced between Jack and Kerry. "I wasn't expecting you." She closed the fridge and opened her can of soda.

"No school today?"

"Break between terms." Cassie took a drink and forced it down. "School starts up again next week."

Jack gestured to Cassie, then Craig. "Kerry Johnson, Cassandra Frasier, and Craig—something. Cassie, this is Kerry. "

Cassandra smiled and gestured limply with her soda, although the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Kerry nodded to Cassandra and Craig in turn. "Nice to meet you. Would you like to stay for dinner? I've got enough for four."

Cassandra threw a scathing look at Jack, who rolled his eyes and sighed. After a beat he said, "Cassie—can I talk to you on the porch?"

She shrugged and set her can down on the counter before following him out through the living room and out the side door.

Jack stopped at the top of the stairs, and turned to wait for Cassie to catch up. She stopped in front of him and stood still, staring into the yard at the birdfeeder. For a second, there was a tense, loud silence, then Jack put his hands in his pockets and began.

"I know that you're mad at me, and I know that you're disappointed about how stuff's going. I'm going to try and fix things—try to do what I can, at least. And I'm asking you to trust me."

She stubbornly refused to look at him.

"Cassie."

She looked at him from under her fringe of hair. "I've always trusted you, Jack."

"Really?" O'Neill gazed back at her steadily. "You coulda fooled me."

"I just feel like I'm—I don't know—drifting—and there isn't anyone around who's normal. You _used_ to be. I used to feel like you and Sam and Daniel and Teal'c were my family—especially right after Mom died. But now—Daniel's missing, and Teal'c's gone back to Dakara, and Sam doesn't care anymore, and you are," she cast a glance in through the window, where Kerry was visible busy at a counter, chatting with Craig, "otherwise occupied."

"Carter cares for you."

"She loves Pete more."

"No, she's just trying to find something—something she really wants."

"She's looking in the wrong places."

O'Neill nodded. "Yes. You're right. But she has to figure that out." He held out both hands to her, palms up. "I'm asking you to be patient. Support her."

"And you're never around anymore—you're always with her." She jerked her head towards the window, the counter, and the woman within.

"I'm never too busy for you."

"You didn't come home that night."

"You left Sam the same way." Jack countered.

"Yeah, but I'm the kid in this equation. You're the adult."

"Wasn't that just you a few weeks ago talking about how you're all grown up?"

Cassie had the grace to grin sheepishly. "Okay, then, you're _older_. You should know better."

"I do, Cass. And I know that you needed me and I wasn't there for you, and all I can do is say I'm sorry."

She stood quietly, chewing thoughtfully on her top lip. "I was a brat."

"Kinda." He gave her a half a smile. "But you're still _my_ brat."

"I'm so sorry, Jack." Jack held out his hands to her, and she crossed the distance to hurl herself at him.

O'Neill enfolded her within his strength, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "We're gonna get through this, kid."

But Cassie only sighed and tightened her grip on him, and Jack was mollified by the fact that if everything really did go to hell, he'd at least have been a part of Cassie's life, and that counted for something.

If it went to hell, it might count for everything.

----OOOOOOO----

Craig and Cassie stayed for dinner. Their presence provided the buffer that Jack needed. He hadn't been expecting Kerry to be there when he'd arrived home, but watching her surreptitiously while she interacted with other people gave him an opportunity to assess his relationship honestly.

She was kind. She treated Craig and Cassie like long-lost relatives, offering advice and telling funny stories. She was also presumptuous. She treated Cassie and Craig as if she actually knew them.

She carried the majority of the conversation—she was bright and witty. She was too bubbly, too chatty. She reminded Jack of Jonas Quinn—and even though he'd deep down admitted a grudging respect for the Kelownan, he wouldn't have wanted to spend more time than necessary in his presence off-hours.

She played with her hair a lot—moving it this way or that, and shaking it out of her eyes like some Breck Girl ad from the seventies. That would get annoying.

She touched him a lot. It could have been sweet, if he liked sweet women, but sweet would get boring really fast—and it embarrassed him in front of Cassie, which surprised him. If they were meant to be together, shouldn't he _like_ showing affection in front of other people he loved?

He felt like he was making a mental list—imaginary columns of positives and negatives. Right now, the columns were about even.

Cassie had honored Jack's wishes and been polite all the way through dessert, thanking Kerry genuinely for the meal. Then she and Craig had gone to the movies. Suddenly alone with Kerry, Jack found himself lingering over cleaning up the kitchen.

"So, Craig seems nice." She'd started several conversations already—he'd pretended he hadn't heard.

"He's a little jumpy."

Kerry leaned back against the counter and dried her hands on a towel. "He's sweet with Cassie."

O'Neill snorted. He stood at the sink, rinsing the last of the dirty water down the drain. "He's afraid of me."

"Well, when you sit through dinner and scowl at people, that's what happens." Kerry crossed the kitchen to stand next to O'Neill. "But I'm not afraid of you. I know what's under that foul look." She tweaked his chin, and he fought the urge to move away from her hand. He really wasn't in the mood.

She threw the towel onto the counter beside the sink and shifted so that she was right in front of the General. "I know what's under this shirt, too." Her fingers played with a button.

He caught her hand. "Look, Kerry—I need to deal with a few things in the morning—and I could barely keep my concentration today."

"It's early." She slipped the button free. "We'll go to bed early and then you can get up as early as you want."

"Kerry—" he stilled her hand with his own, pressing it to his chest. "Not tonight. Please. I'm not _there _tonight."

"Oh. Well. Okay. I'm sorry if I thought—" She pulled her hand free, looked around, found her purse and moved towards it.

Jack caught her arm and pulled her back to him. He gave her a quick, hard hug. "How's this for cliché—it's not you, it's me?"

Kerry grinned. She pressed her forehead to his chest, then followed that with a kiss on one pectoral. Looking up, she quirked an eyebrow. "I'll accept that cliché and raise you one. I'll stay and we won't do anything."

Jack grimaced inwardly. He couldn't think of a rejoinder to that. He shrugged and gently set her away from him. "Wanna watch some TV? _The Simpson's_ is on."

Kerry frowned, then followed him as he walked into the living room. "Okay, I'll give it another try."

"Give what another try?"

"_The Simpson's_—I watched it once but thought it was pretty stupid."

That put another tic mark in the negative column.

----OOOOOOO----

He lay in bed later, listening to her gentle breathing, reflecting on his mental check list. She'd been true to her word, not making any physical moves on him other than a chaste peck on the lips as they'd bid each other good night. She'd turned over and been asleep within a few minutes.

Jack, on the other hand, couldn't get to sleep. As he'd tallied up pros and cons, the columns were even, until you got to one glaring point.

Kerry wasn't Carter.

And what was worse was that he still wanted to roll over and wake Kerry up and take his refuge with her—lose himself as he had been for the past few weeks. Only the fact that he was conscious of his motive now prevented him from doing it.

He knew that he was using Kerry's body to fill in for the one he really wanted. He knew that each time he'd stroked or caressed Kerry, he'd been imagining it to be Carter he was touching. Doc Polly had been right—once he admitted it to himself, he didn't feel right about continuing. Kerry was a good person—she didn't deserve to be used like that.

So he laid in his own bed like an interloper, trying to stay as far as possible from its other occupant. And when he finally drifted off to sleep, it was to dream brokenly of porcelain skin, wheat blond hair, and impossibly blue eyes, quiet moans and breathless sighs.

And when the phone rang and it was Carter's voice on the other end, telling him about problems with the Jaffa, he nearly cried with the unfairness of it all.

At that moment, he would have given anything to have been able to fall in love with the woman in his bed.

He would have given anything to be able to _not_ love the woman on the phone.


	17. The Passing

The Passing

"General O'Neill."

Jack stopped and turned. He hadn't noticed the figure standing at the entrance to the mountain, but then he hadn't really been looking for him, either.

"Shanahan."

Pete stepped towards him, still wearing the 'Visitor' access tag that Jack himself had signed off on the day before. He crossed the distance between them steadily, warily. "I just wanted to thank you for letting me come here. It can't have been easy for you—knowing what a jerk I was at the party."

"Yes, well." Jack wasn't in the mood for elaboration. He stood still, waiting for whatever else it was the other man wanted to say.

"Anyhow, I just met Jacob Carter. Wow. That was an experience."

"Oh?"

"Yeah—just imagining that he's got a thing in his head. That totally freaked me out, you know?"

"Totally."

"I hope he liked me. Do you think he liked me?"

"I don't know. I'm not exactly on Jacob's speed dial."

Pete laughed. "Speed dial." He waggled a finger in Jack's direction. "That's funny. 'Cause, you know, aliens don't use phones."

Jack wondered if the meeting between future father-in-law and son-in-law had been captured on a surveillance tape somewhere. He'd kill for a copy. Somehow, he didn't think it had gone well, if Pete had referred to his fiancée's father as an alien. The Weeble would know where he could get the footage. That right there was going to be some damn fine entertainment.

"Well, anyhow. I just wanted to thank you again. I can imagine that after the wedding we'll be seeing a lot of each other. Sam talks about you guys—her team—all the time."

"I'm sure." Dismissively, Jack half turned back towards the entrance and aimed for the first security check point.

But Shanahan's voice called out. "And I want to make sure that you know that you're welcome."

Jack stalled, casting a look over his shoulder.

"You know, at the wedding." Earnestly appealing, Pete smiled.

When O'Neill didn't respond, Pete approached him again. "Sam said that you weren't coming. She took your name off the list for the catering. I put you back on—seeing how I figured you'd come anyway. Because you're friends, right? And friends attend other friends' weddings."

Jack's lips flattened into a thin line. When he spoke, it was controlled, without inflection. "I won't be attending your wedding, Shanahan. Carter and I have had this discussion, and it's settled."

Pete splayed both hands out in front of him. "I'm just sayin' that you're still on the list if you change your mind."

Jack fixed the younger man with a look, then shook his head curtly. Without another word, he turned and walked into the mountain.

----OOOOOOO----

He managed to make it to his office without running into anyone else, but that's where his luck ended. He didn't turn the light on as he entered—but he could see clearly enough anyway. Light filtering in from the window into the briefing room rested on a balding head, a leather shirt, and that condescendingly 'Jacob Carter' face.

"So I met him."

Jack rounded his desk and pulled out his chair before answering.

"Oh?" There was no need to ask who Jacob was talking about.

"You're right. He's a shrub."

"Oh, come on. He's a nice guy—" Hadn't he promised he'd try to be supportive? Still, it felt wrong even to say it.

Apparently, the Tok'ra agreed.

"Nice." Jacob snorted. "She'll be bored before the reception's over."

Jack sat down and scooted his chair in. "Well, whatcha gonna do? She picked him."

Jacob sat still in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his arm outstretched onto the back of the chair next to him. "Jack, I'm going to tell you something, and if you tell another soul, I _will_ kill you."

"Okay." Hesitantly, Jack paused, then lowered himself into his chair.

Jacob waited until Jack sat before continuing. "Selmak's not doing too well."

A chill wrestled its way down Jack's spine and came to a rest somewhere in his gut. "How so?"

"I haven't heard from him in a while. You know how it is."

"I choose not to think about it much."

"Yes, well. You still know."

The look in Jacob's eyes was earnest. Jack knew this was not going to end well. So Jack nodded. "I do."

"There are things that need to be done—and I'm going to try to do them, but I want your promise that you'll take care of her if I can't make it."

"Pete will—"

"Pete." Jacob snorted. "Doesn't know what she'll need. You do. You can get her through."

"Jacob—you look fine."

But the Tok'ra stood and planted both hands firmly on Jack's desk. "We've had our moments in the past few days—but I know that you wouldn't let this sulking of yours interfere with duty—with what she needs. Right? We've got a meeting here, soon, and I will need you to pretend that everything is fine—but the truth is that it's not. And Selmak and I—well, we might not make it."

"Jacob—I—" Jack looked steadily into the face of his friend. He raised his hands, palms up. "What do you want me to do?"

"Jack, please. Find a way." Jacob rapped his knuckles once, twice, on the desk top. "Find a way."

And even though Jack knew exactly what Jacob was talking about, he didn't have a clue how to make that particular request happen.

----OOOOOOO----

Sometimes, he forgot that Kerry worked at the SGC, too. Right after Bra'tac and Teal'c had departed the second time to Dakara, she'd poked her head in his door.

"Hey, Jack."

"Hi, Kerry."

"Listen, I know that there's weird stuff going on here, but I'm thinking that steaks sound good tonight. I can pick some up on the way to your place. I'll grill."

He'd tried for levity. "You don't like the way I grill?"

"You've very earnest, I'll give you that." And she'd dimpled into her signature smile.

He really didn't want to. He really wanted to go home any bury his head in the sand and hope against hope that something was going to go right. But he'd agreed to meat, anyway.

That evening, when Carter had showed up during said grilling, he'd tried to smooth things over, and failed.

And when she'd been recalled to the SGC, he'd tried to salvage the rest of the evening, but Kerry had seen through that one in a heartbeat. She'd gently pushed him through the door.

"Go. Be with Colonel Carter and Jacob. I know that you all have been very close."

And again, Jack wished that he could feel more for her. He'd grabbed his keys and pulled on a jacket and pressed a light kiss to her cheek. "I'll see you later. I'll call."

But they had both known that it was the end.

That much was obvious early the next day when she'd entered his office, closed the deeply symbolic door behind her and told him in her forthright way that he needed to retire.

----OOOOOOO----

He found himself drawn to the room where Jacob lay. The 'Gate had been unusually active since the communication had been sent through about Selmak's illness, but Jack had left the traffic in Walter's hands to go down for a moment and claim some time with Jacob.

Jacob looked like hell. Pale, tense, weak. Jack sat down next to his friend, distinctly aware that Carter watched from above in the observation room.

"Hey, Jake."

"Jack." His voice was little more than a whisper.

"You know, you picked a heck of a time for all this drama."

Jacob tried to smile—but the effort was obviously too much for him. He slowly blinked instead.

"I thought about what you said, earlier."

Jacob fixed his gaze on Jack. "And what?"

"I'll try. I'll take care of things. I'll do whatever I can."

Jacob nodded slowly. "I know you will. I trust you."

And then another Tok'ra entered, and Jack made his way up into the observation room. He'd put his arm around Jacob's daughter, felt her lips brush his hand, ached _for_ her, and ached for _her_.

He'd watched Jacob die. He'd watched it hit Carter, and seen her falter, and then break. For all the bravery one feels before a fact, sometimes the actual fact is harder to take. She'd kissed her father's forehead and smoothed his cheek, then just sat at his side as the machines had gradually been shut off and the lights dimmed. And when the last of them had been silenced, she'd laid her head on her father's still, cold chest and wept.

And because he didn't know what else to do for her, Jack had waited for her at the door to the isolation room. He instinctively knew that she needed and wanted some space—some time alone with her father. But O'Neill also knew that she'd need more after. When she left the room.

When she'd emerged, she'd seemed surprised to see him there. Her look had said as much.

"Where else would I be, Carter?"

"I don't know." She looked lost, small. "I thought you'd be with Ms. Johnson. Since you two are—"

"We're nothing. Not any more."

She'd bit her lip, and just stood there, in the hall, directionless.

"Come here." He said, for the second time in an hour, and she'd fallen into him, her face burrowing into his chest, his arms around her, his hands at her nape and the small of her back.

And it wasn't soldierly—this contact. No mere camaraderie, no friend comforting a friend. There was an intimacy there that wasn't appropriate, as he bent his head towards the curve of her shoulder and she splayed her hands on his lower back, memorizing the shape and contour of his back just as he committed to memory her scent, the softness of her skin.

But he, quite frankly, didn't give a damn. Something had changed. He didn't know what, exactly, but something.

He spoke against her temple. "Do you want me to take you home?"

"No." He could feel her lips move against his chest. "I need to call my brother—make a few arrangements."

"Did he leave instructions?"

Jack was surprised when she let out a sad chuckle. "When _didn't_ my dad leave orders?"

"What can I do?"

And if possible, she melted closer into him. "You're already doing it."


	18. Passing Out

Thanks for taking this journey with me—we're almost done, and I'm finding it's tough to let this one go. But just so you all know—I don't write smut, so when this is all said and done, you may have to fill in your own blanks. Feel free to review, and I hope that you have enjoyed this trip through Jack's psyche with me.

Thanks.

Passing Out

He supposed that there was no possible way to have anything happen normally around the SGC.

The 'Gate had been rigged to explode again, Anubis posed to use the Dakara weapon to wipe out all life in the Galaxy—but a mere few hours later, Daniel had appeared in his office, naked as a jaybird.

And really, one of the most creepy parts about the naked thing had been Bra'tac's reaction to the naked. Frankly, it had make Jack wonder about the older Jaffa's orientation, so to speak. He wondered in a moment of further oddness if the Jaffa subscribed to 'Don't ask, Don't tell'.

Not normal. Normal offices would not have that sort of thing happen. Of course, what he knew about working in offices was exactly not much, but he couldn't imagine employees at a Kinko's having to staple paper together in order to cover up a re-human formed Ascended being. Again.

But the deep worry he'd felt with Daniel missing had been alleviated, and now all he had to do was concentrate on the remarks he would make at Jacob Carter's memorial service.

And worry about Carter herself.

She hadn't told him that she'd called off the wedding—Daniel had done that as they'd eaten dinner his first night back. In fact, she hadn't spoken with him since their embrace outside the room where her father had died. In typical Carter fashion, she'd internalized it all to the point that no one else got to participate. Or commiserate.

"She really didn't tell you?" Daniel gestured wildly with his fork, a piece of Salisbury steak impaled on the end of it. "Wow. I mean. I kind of figured that she'd tell _you_."

"She also didn't tell me that she requested a transfer to Area 51."

"So how do you know that?"

"General Hammond called me." He didn't mention that George had also hinted at a new assignment for himself.

"Why don't you just go and talk to her, Jack?" Daniel took a drink of his milk. He'd done nothing since his return but eat. And get dressed, of course. But mostly, eat. "I mean—doesn't that raise certain possibilities—her being in Nevada?"

Jack grimaced. It wasn't like he hadn't considered that.

"Do you have to give permission for the transfer?"

"They'd like my endorsement, but it's up to Hammond and his crew to make the final decision."

"Would you give it?"

Jack frowned, the little line between his eyebrows deepening. "It's _Carter_, Daniel, how could I _not_?"

"So stuff's changing."

"Looks like it."

Daniel chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes. He swallowed, then speared a chunk of pineapple from his fruit bowl before speaking again. "So I hear you had a little fling while I was gone."

"Hmmph."

"I met her in the supply room. She's pretty." He mumbled around his pineapple.

"Hmmph."

Daniel swallowed again, then put down his fork. This time, he impaled Jack with his gaze. "You have to talk to Sam, Jack."

"I know."

"You guys have to sort this out."

Daniel still had it—a knack for saying things that really didn't need to be said.

----OOOOOOO----

Mark came to the memorial service, with his wife and two kids. Jack watched, quietly facilitating, as they arranged a cremation with an SGC approved funeral home. They'd stayed for a day, gathering the few mementos left for them by the family patriarch, and then piled back into their minivan and driven back to San Diego directly after the small gathering of old friends and SGC personnel at Sam's house.

Daniel and Jack stayed behind to help clean up. Teal'c had returned with Bra'tac, both of them wearing hats low down over their gilded tattoos. Cassie and Craig were there, too. They folded and stacked chairs, wiped down the rented tables, and cleared away paper plates and cups. And through it all, Carter remained stoic, her face a pristine, emotionless mask.

Eventually, though, the chores were done, and the group found themselves standing in the living room, while Sam puttered in her kitchen.

"I'll stay." Daniel offered. "I've got nothing else to do. And she needs a friend here."

"Mark should have stayed." Cassie twisted her habitual lock of hair. She'd dyed it all one color for the funeral. "It's not like he did anything to help out."

"Cassie—everyone has to grieve at their own pace." Craig put his hand on her shoulder. "When my grandmother died, my mother went shopping. She called it retail therapy. We can't judge how people react in times of trial."

Jack watched as Cassie put her hand over his. He had to admit, he was kind of starting to like Craig. Maybe he'd even learn his last name soon.

"In our home, it is customary to sing praises to the dead far into the night while the fire dies down." Teal'c stated. He and Bra'tac had not said much—just offered their quiet support.

Daniel lifted a water bottle to his lips. "Yes, well, lacking a fire and singing, I'll stay with her tonight."

But they hadn't noticed Carter entering from the kitchen. "No one needs to stay with me." She walked forward, her eyes too bright, a plastic half smile on her face. "I'm fine."

"I was planning on moving back in, Sam." Cassie stepped towards her, wrapping her arms around her waist. "It's time, don't you think?"

Sam returned the hug without really feeling it. "Sure, Cass. Whatever you want to do."

"You gotta have someone here." Daniel sat down on her couch, as if that settled it. "You can't be here alone."

But Sam just gave that fake half smile again. She gently pushed Cassie away and held up both hands, palms out. "I'll be fine. Really. Thanks for helping out, and all. I really do appreciate it. After all this—company—Mark and the kids and all—I really am ready to spend a quiet evening alone." She moved towards the front door, opening it pointedly.

Daniel stood back up. With a lingering look towards Sam, he lifted a single shoulder in a partial shrug. "Okay. But call us when you need us." Bra'tac and Teal'c were already on the front porch, soon joined by Cassie and Craig. Daniel stepped in behind Jack as they made their way out of the house.

Sam didn't say another word, she just shut the door behind them.

----OOOOOOO----

Jack had dropped Daniel off at his rented apartment and then gotten home just as Cassie and Craig were on their way out to a friend's condo. He had his house to himself. It was too big, felt too empty. He retrieved a bottle of soda from the fridge and made his way out onto his porch, trying to escape the solitude.

As soon as he sat down, though, his cell phone rang. He rested his soda on the floor beside his chair as he wrestled the device from his pocket.

"Jack!"

"Hello, General Hammond."

"You should call me George."

"I think you can pretty much rest assured that's never going to happen, sir." They'd gone over this many, many times, now.

"Whatever." The Texas came out in his voice as he dismissed Jack's reticence. "The honchos over here have made a decision, and we'd like you to head East and be a member of the Homeworld Security team here at the Pentagon."

"Oh."

"There's a promotion involved—you'd get your second star."

"But I just got used to the first one."

Hammond chuckled. "Jack, we all believe here that you're the right man for the job. And it will get you out of Cheyenne Mountain."

"Okay—well." He really didn't know what else to say from there.

Apparently, Hammond had some ideas, though. "Jack, I just got off the phone with Colonel Carter."

"Yes. The memorial service went well."

"She said that." There was a pause. Jack waited—knowing that there was a shoe preparing to drop somewhere. "She said that you were helpful."

"I didn't do anything special."

"Jack—now I know that the past years have been tough."

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Jack." Hammond used the voice he used to use with delegates that didn't play nice. Like the Kelownans.

"Yes, sir."

"It's time. It's time for what comes next."

"And what would that be, sir?"

"I would hope that I wouldn't have to spell it out. You're a bright guy underneath the smartassiness."

"Is that even a word?"

"Do I have to make it an order?"

Jack paused, watching as the sun glinted briefly through the trees on its way down. It was twilight—the time of day he liked the best. Like early morning, it carried a certain melancholy, a certain hope. The day wasn't done yet, but night hadn't yet descended. He'd seen a hell of a lot of twilights just this way lately—alone, on his own back porch, a bottle of something on the deck next to him. Was he in the twilight of his life? Some might say so—but there hadn't been a lot of beginnings, lately—only endings.

Like General Hammond had said. It was time.

"No, sir." Jack cleared his throat as quietly as he could. "You don't have to do that."

"Good. I'll send a memo later in the week with transfer information." As if that settled everything.

As if that settled _anything_. "One question, sir."

"Yes."

"Me in DC, her in Nevada, how is that supposed to work?"

Hammond sighed, obviously at the end of his patience. "You're the hotshot pilot, son, you figure it out."

And then the connection clicked off.

He stared at the cell phone, willing it to ring on its own, but it betrayed him by keeping silent. Lightly, with his thumb, he dialed the number he'd dialed so many times before.

This time, it felt new. He misdialed, and had to press 'end' and dial again.

Finally, he set the phone at his ear, listening as it rang on the other end. He waited, eventually pressing 'end' again when it bumped him into her voice mail. He wasn't going to leave _that_ message.

He dialed again—her cell phone. But again, there was no answer.

Leaning forward in his chair, he stared at the compact device in his hand momentarily before tossing it into the grass. It landed with a quiet 'piff' after bouncing once. Useless piece of crap.

"That'll suck to mow over."

The voice came from his left. He glanced over to see Carter standing on his porch. She'd traded the sleek black dress she'd worn at the memorial service for a pair of faded jeans and a soft-looking blue sweater. But the blue failed to bring out the startling color of her eyes. They were too dim for that, too hurt.

"I have a service. I'll tip."

She took an unsteady step forward. They had mastered the work place conversations in the past years—it was the personal ones that threw them. Her nervousness showed—his discomfort did, too, he was sure.

"We need to talk, sir."

He stood, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He remembered that he hadn't changed—just flung his uniform coat over the back of a chair on his way to the fridge. He still wore the rest of his monkey suit—right down to the shiny black shoes.

"Yes. We do."

Jack watched as she moved toward him. She had captured her bottom lip with her teeth, and was rasping her palms against the sides of her thighs.

"I'm going to Nevada."

"I know."

"I've been reassigned there indefinitely."

"I know that, too. I signed off on it."

She didn't meet his eyes, but looked down, instead, at the white sneakers she wore. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—nearly a whisper. "Are you that anxious to get rid of me?"

Was that what she thought? He broke a little, knowing that she'd felt that way. He waited to compose himself before answering. "As I recall, you requested the transfer."

"I didn't really want it. I just wanted to see if you still wanted me around."

"Carter—haven't you figured out by now that I will do whatever it takes to see you happy?"

She looked up at him then, and he cursed inwardly when he saw the tears—the ones that had been so absent at the funeral home, at the service—they were there in full force now. "And you think I'll be happy at Groom Lake?"

"I thought that was what you _wanted_."

"How would you know? We haven't discussed this at all."

"What was there to discuss? I thought you'd made your decision."

She balled her hands into fists. "Sir. Please."

"As of now, Carter, we're no longer in the same chain of command. And this is a personal conversation. You don't have to call me 'sir'."

But she just looked at him, stubbornly silent, her bottom lip trembling almost imperceptibly.

"So what are we talking about here—Groom Lake, or the rest of this whole mess?"

Still, she didn't speak.

"Sam."

"There's just too much. Too much has happened." She was back to rubbing her palms.

"It's not necessary to rehash it all, is it?"

"When I came here that afternoon—and she was here, I was angry—and so—." She paused, her hand rising to rest at her midsection. "It was painful."

Kerry. They were talking about Kerry. He took a deep breath. "Carter, I'm sorry you were hurt."

She wiped at her eyes with her fingertips, taking a step sideways. "I'd come here to talk—about us—about everything. To see if I was doing the right thing. And I interrupted what—a date? An _affair_?"

"Sam." Jack removed his hands from his pockets, spread them to her in supplication. "Do you really want to do this?'

But she barreled on. "You said that you cared for me. You told me _always_. Was that before or after you jumped into bed with _her_?"

He shook his head in disbelief. He knew that she'd essentially buried her father today. He was trying to be sensitive to that, but she wasn't making sense. "Sam. Listen—there's too much to—" he faltered.

"Maybe it was all a lie. One of your jokes."

"Do you really think that?"

"I don't know—you've never given me any reason to think otherwise."

O'Neill just stared at her. He teetered on the precipice of true anger. He breathed in deeply, through his nose, his lips tight. But he'd been hurt, too, and it bubbled over. "Carter, don't pin this on me. I'm not the one that wanted to leave it in the room."

"But that's just an excuse, isn't it? You've been using that one for years."

"Carter—what do you want me to say?" His voice was rising, he knew it, but was incapable of controlling it. "Both of us have screwed up our chances."

She shook her head violently. The hand on her midsection rose and gestured at him. "I tried to ask you if you wanted—_us_—if you wanted to be with me. You're the one that told me you didn't want me."

"I've _never_ not wanted you!" Jack nearly threw his hands in the air. "I've spent _years_ wanting to be with you—wanting to _be able_ to be with you!"

"Then why didn't you do something about it? And don't preach to me about rules and regulations, because you're pretty good at breaking them when you really want something!"

"You know why!"

"No, I don't!"

He bent down and picked up his water, fingering the plastic cap. He wished desperately that it was a beer. He needed the numbness of a beer. He didn't want to yell—didn't want to have this argument. Didn't want to spell out to the smartest person in the universe that he wasn't good enough for her—that whatever he felt wasn't good enough. So he uncapped his bottle and looked down at it, for something to do to put his train wreck on hold.

"Tell me, _General O'Neill_. Tell me why, when I offered myself to you—you told me that you didn't want me?"

He looked up at her—her eyes wide with what—passion? Anger? He couldn't tell. She was both of those things, and hurt, and mourning. He struggled for control. "When was this?" He ground out the words. "When was it that you offered?"

"In my lab—with the ring."

If he closed his eyes, he could still see her there, bathed in dim light from her desk lamp. He'd replayed that moment in his head too many times.

"_What about you? If things had been different."_

And he'd told her that he wouldn't be _there_. At the time, the words had just ventured forth out of him mouth, and the meaning assigned had been flippant—he didn't care what she did, didn't have a claim on her.

But in the past few months, he wondered if he had misinterpreted his _own_ words. He'd just spit them out, after all—for something to say. If things had been different, he'd have been somewhere else _with_ her. His cabin, another planet—another freakin' Galaxy—wherever—just so that they could be together. But the meaning had dimmed in the light of the fact that she was asking it from behind another man's diamond. From within another man's proposal.

He hadn't belonged there.

So he answered lamely. "I just wanted you to be happy. He could offer you more—"

"He's not you!"

"No. he's not. He's a good man—a nice man." Jack gestured with his water bottle. "And I'm not. I'm damaged, and old, and there are things I've done—"

But she cut him off. "And you think that disqualifies you from _what_? With deserving to be with someone? If so, then why did you jump into bed with Ms. Johnson?"

His dam broke—frustration spilling out into the deepening evening. He knew he was shouting—knew he was abrupt and curt. Knew he was yelling with anger dripping off each word. "You were engaged to Pete! You were going to _marry_ him! What was I supposed to do—wait for the divorce? Pine away until you got bored and came to torture me some more? Carter—what do you want from me? Just tell me! What the hell do you _want_?"

She turned—ready to bolt. She took a few steps, but stopped at his words. "Not this time, Sam. You can't run away from this. Make a damned _decision_. Tell me what you want!"

Sam turned back, but didn't look at him. She stared instead at the spot in the lawn where his cell phone made a slight divot.

"What do you want?" Calmer, now, but still insistent.

She finally looked him in the eye—and it about killed him. She was hurt, and confused, and so very lost. He read that in her—as accurately as if they were still standing over a panel of control crystals in a souped-up cargo ship and he were still influenced by the knowledge of the Ancients. He knew her so deeply—because they were so alike.

She was damaged, too. She was tired, and lonely, and broken, and needy. They had both turned to other people when they should have been finding each other. Put duty and work before their own happiness so often that now it was a habit—a matter of fact rather than an anomaly.

Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear what she'd said. He stepped closer, could see her slight body shivering—not from cold—the night was warm—from everything else.

"Sam. All you have to do is tell me."

But she didn't speak again, merely walked forward, closing the distance between them, stopping directly in front of him—so close that he could feel her trembling.

And what could he do but gather her in to himself—hold her, breathe her, touch her, heal her?

So he did. And she sighed and nestled into him, her own arms gathering him, close, too.

Was it a decision? He didn't know. But she wanted to be there, and he wanted her there, and she was warm, and pliant, and tight in his arms.

And Jack supposed that for now, that was answer enough.


	19. Passing Go

Passing Go

"Do you think that Goa'ulds fart?"

She stirred next to him. They were laying on his couch, him on the bottom, her splayed half across him, halfway on what was left of the cushions. As comfort went, it wasn't great—as wonderful went, it was perfect.

"What?" She raised her head a little and peered at him. The wounded look was almost gone from her eyes.

"Goa'ulds. Do you think that they fart?"

"What in the name of all that's holy would make you ask that?"

"I asked Daniel a while ago, but he didn't know." He also hadn't wanted to discuss it, but Carter didn't have to know that part of the story.

She sighed, a move that further melded her body to his, and he decided right there and then that he liked it when she sighed. "Goa'uld farts. Holy Hannah, sir. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in your head."

She hadn't quite been able to get rid of the 'sir' yet—but then it had only been a little while. And sometimes, the 'sir' was endearing. Like when she'd said it at certain moments the night before. Certain really _good_ moments. He'd suddenly found the 'sir' damn sexy.

And besides. He was still calling her 'Carter'—sometimes in those self-same good moments—so he figured it was okay. A rose is a rose, and all that.

"I think it would be a natural bodily function, but Daniel thinks that the snake would regulate digestion so that the passing of gas wouldn't be necessary." His fingers were making lazy circles on her shoulder—her bare shoulder—the most toned shoulder he'd ever seen or felt—with the softest skin in the history of shoulders. She had an almost permanent light bruise on the right one where she butted her combat weapon when she fired it. Somehow, that made her even more perfect.

Jack could almost hear her start thinking. "Well, my guess is that the symbiote would regulate and moderate some basic human processes—but I know for a fact that Dad used to let loose from time to time after he joined with Selmak, so my bet would be _with_ farting Goa'ulds."

He grinned. And then, just because he could, he kissed her.

----OOOOOOO----

_They'd stood on the patio for what seemed like hours—but in reality it had only been a few minutes. He'd gathered her into himself, held her close until her shivers had subsided. He remembered laying his cheek against the side of her head—feeling the silken thread of her hair against his skin. She'd spread her hands on his chest, then slid them down to rest at his waist. He'd lowered his head to the crook of her shoulder and inhaled her essence._

_She was tall—he always forgot that about her. But then, they almost never stood like this—body pressed against body. Her eyes were almost at his level, and when he raised his head from her throat, he found her looking at him._

_She studied his face, his eyes, his mouth. She drew a hand upward and lightly followed the scar hidden in his eyebrow. "I've never asked how you got that." She spoke quietly. "There's so much I don't know about you."_

_He swallowed, and then quirked that eyebrow. "You know the most important thing."_

"_What's that, sir?" She'd tilted her face up, her eyes still damp._

"_That I'm yours."_

_Her hand stroked his temple, his jaw, fingertips lightly traced the line of his lips—a shadow of a smile on her own._

"_I can't believe you'd still want me. I know I've hurt you."_

"_Isn't there a saying about bridges and water?"_

"_There is, but that would be a cliché." She smiled for real—that heartbreakingly beautiful smile that made him grateful that he was a man. "And I do know how you feel about clichés."_

"_Yes, well. There's another saying about spilled milk and crying."_

_She ran her tongue along her lips, and then framed his face with both hands. "I want to know something else about you." She said quietly, before raising herself up on her toes and pressing her lips to his._

_He opened his lips and breathed her in, tasting her deeply, before she broke away. "I won't be able to stop—if we start this." Carter's hand had found its way into his hair, her fingers threading through the silver strands._

"_Then we'd better go inside." He'd grabbed a handful of her sweater and led her there._

----OOOOOOO----

He supposed that her sweater was still where he'd dropped it—somewhere in the hall. They'd eventually ended up in his room, fumbling hands desperate to get at belts and buttons and closures. He knew a few of those buttons had wound up under his bed.

Right now, she was dressed in his clothes—one of his Air Force tanks and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that a great aunt had mailed him years ago and he'd never worn. She'd never looked better.

And she'd never felt better. Draped across him like the most perfect blanket in the world.

"Although I suppose that the Tok'ra wouldn't meddle with human functions as much as a Goa'uld would. So, maybe Goa'ulds wouldn't need to whiff as much."

He snorted.

"What?"

"You just said 'whiff'."

"So?"

"That's the lamest euphemism for farting that I've ever heard." He couldn't help it. He started laughing.

"It's perfectly acceptable, as euphemisms go."

"No it isn't."

She used both hands on his chest to push herself upright. "There's no reason to laugh at me."

"Oh." He nodded in mock solemnity. "There's reason."

She reached up and grabbed the pillow that he'd stuffed between his head and the arm of the couch. Raising herself, she threw her leg over him and sat on his thighs. She whacked him with the pillow, which only made him laugh harder.

So she fought dirty. She leaned down and caught his mouth with her own, capturing his laugh, quelling it with a sudden rush of need. She shifted positions and ended up bumping noses with him, then smiled as his hand cupped the back of her neck and drew her back down to him. Several long, long minutes later she raised her head as his fingers did wonderful things on her back.

"I know something else about you." She flattened her hands on his stomach.

"What's that?" His attention was with tracing each of her vertebrae.

She leaned down over him and whispered in his ear. When she came back up, he'd raised a brow and was looking at her with new respect.

"Darn straight I don't need a bathtub." Levering himself with one leg, he flipped over and she ended up on her back on the area rug between the couch and the coffee table, with him looming over her. "Not when I've got a perfectly good floor."

----OOOOOOO----

_He'd woken up to sun streaming through his windows, and a golden tousled head under his chin. He couldn't tell where her limbs ended and his began, and he thought it was the best possible way to wake up. So he drifted back to sleep so that he could wake up that way again._

_The second time he opened his eyes, she was looking up at him, her elegant fingers idly memorizing his collarbone._

"_Any regrets?"_

"_Why would I regret anything?" He'd been genuinely puzzled at the question._

_She shrugged, looking up at him warily. "I don't know. I don't seem to have the best track record with men."_

"_Maybe you've been with the wrong ones."_

"_Maybe." Non committal. She licked her lips._

"_Carter, you can't take this back." He turned onto his side, so that they faced one another, her head still pillowed on his arm. "I won't let you."_

"_I'm just saying—now you know. The mystery is over."_

"_What I said was true, Sam. Always."_

_She'd pulled the sheet up to her chin. "I just can't believe we're here. Like this."_

"_I can't believe you're finally going to go fishing with me."_

"_What are you talking about?"_

"_You promised—last night." He'd raised a hand and pushed some tangles behind her ears. Her short hair was impossibly messy. He'd only seen it this way after all-nighters off world, or after a nasty firefight. He decided he liked it better this way._

"_No, I didn't." She batted at his hand._

"_Yes, you did."_

"_When?"_

"_Somewhere between the 'oh, yes' and the 'more, more'."_

_And she'd smiled again, and turned the best shade of pink, and hidden her face behind the sheet. "I did not ever say that. Any of that."_

_But then his fingers wandered and eventually she found herself _not_ saying it all again._

----OOOOOOO----

"What do you think about mucus?"

"I take it we're still on about the Goa'uld gross stuff?"

"Mucus."

"Boogers or phlegm?"

"Phlegm?" His eyes widened. "I hadn't even considered _phlegm_."

They'd returned to the couch, him sitting, her lying down with her head on a pillow on his lap, her feet crossed up on the opposite arm. He had one hand on her bare arm, the other in her hair.

"Because boogers, they've got. Niirti wiped her nose once."

"When was this?"

"She had me in that machine of hers, and I saw as she wiped her nose."

He hated thinking about that machine. Even today, some years later, those times he'd almost lost her filled him with dread.

"Maybe it just itched?"

She shook her head. "Nope. She wiped her nose, then wiped her hand on her dress. Boogers."

"Eeew." Jack grimaced. "That's kinda icky."

"Phlegm, now." She yawned widely, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Sorry—phlegm, now. I've never heard a System Lord cough."

"Me either."

They sat in thoughtful, companionable silence until Carter broke it.

"Yu burped once."

"Really?" His hand stalled where it was combing through her hair. "A real belch or just a little one?"

"It was a good one. Daniel told me about it—it was after they ate those symbiotes in that space station. When Daniel was under cover."

"And Lord Yu the Great belched?" He resumed his rhythmic administrations to her hair.

"What was it you said once? Better out than in?" Her eyes drifted shut. "Mmmmn. That feels nice, sir."

He smiled down at her. She was confusing him with Shrek. She must be tired, still.

And no wonder. She hadn't slept much the night before. Part of it was his fault—their fault. And part of it had been the nightmare that had racked her around two a.m. She had started breathing quickly, rapidly muttering about hiding, about the prototype. He knew immediately she was back at the old Alpha Site, running from the Super Soldier. He'd pulled her close and held her until the dream had faded.

And now she was sleeping quietly again. He watched her, a smile tugging at his lips. He had to remember this—capture each of these times in the album in his head. In a few short weeks they'd be separated again—not by rank this time, but by geography. He needed to take these minutes as he could get them, and commit them to memory.

The house sat quietly around him—silence only enhanced by the gentle breathing of the woman sleeping on him. For now, satisfaction blanketed him heavily—they had both fulfilled whatever physical needs had been driving through them. The only restlessness he felt now was the desire to make this—this new reality they'd found—permanent.

He'd been silently running ideas through his head. But how did one propose to a woman who had just bid goodbye to a different prospective husband, a team, and a father all within the space of a few days?

His own eyes drifted shut, only to open a few minutes later with a sound at the front door. He turned his head to see Cassie standing on the step in the entry way, her face beaming.

He raised a finger to his lips. "Don't wake her up." Even his whisper was too loud.

Cassie quietly crossed the room and sat on the edge of the coffee table. Her voice was as quiet as his. "How long has she been here?"

He tweaked his eyebrows. He hadn't even considered Cassie during the long, eventful night—his entire focus had been on Sam. Sheepishly, he rolled his eyes.

"All night?" Cassie was too quick for him. He couldn't hide anything from her.

"All right. Yes. All night."

Cassie grinned wide, her eyebrows rising suggestively. "Does this mean that the two of you are—"

"Apparently."

"Hot damn!"

"Cassie." Jack tried to sound disapproving, but she'd learned the phrase from him, so it came out a little lame.

Sam stirred. She stretched and smiled, reaching up to touch his face—as if to assure herself that he was still there. She stilled though, and then drew her hand back self consciously when she noticed the third party on the coffee table.

"Hey, Sam." Cassie wriggled her fingers.

"Hi, Cass."

"So I guess you two got your heads out of your butts."

Sam smiled. She moved to sit up, but gave up and just stretched like a cat, settling back onto her pillow. "I guess so."

"So what's next for you two crazy kids?"

Sam turned her head to look at Jack, who shrugged. "You're the genius, Carter."

The genius grinned. "Well, I _will_ be in Nevada."

"You will."

"And there's this city there."

"The one with all the Elvises?"

"That's right." She patted his cheek as she would a child's. "And you've got some time off, and so do I."

"That we do."

"So I figure we could go there for a few days."

"Hang out."

"Relax."

"Meditate on the Goa'uld and their bodily functions."

"Get hitched." The hurt sadness that had clouded her eyes for weeks had fled, leaving a hopeful radiance. She caught his gaze, "And then I was thinking about this cabin I've heard about. And doing a little fishing."

Jack smiled, then ran the backs of his fingers down the perfect line that was her cheek.

"Well, spank me rosy."

"That could be arranged, too, sir."

"Oh my _crap_—people—there are rooms for this sort of thing."

They'd forgotten about Cassie. Both of them turned their attention back to her.

"I wanted to see you two together—I _didn't_ want to _see_ you two _together_, if you catch my drift." She pushed her hair, which now had streaks of what looked like glitter in it, behind her ear. "I'm glad this is happening here and all, but—_geez_."

"Oh, this bothers you now."

"It's a little surreal." Cassie pointed out.

"I walked in on you and Craig in the same position."

"But we're young—older people aren't supposed to just—go for it."

Jack tried to look innocent. "So, it would bother you if I just lay one on Carter right now—right here—say—like this—" And he bent slightly to demonstrate, tipping Sam's head back and claiming her mouth.

But he demonstrated too well, because he got lost somewhere along the way, lost in the feel and taste and wonder of the woman on his lap.

And neither of them heard the soft 'click' of the front door as Cassandra passed through it and closed it gently behind her. They didn't remember she'd even been there for a long, long time.


	20. Passing Hints

So here's the funny thing. If any of you read the _Wizard of Mazd_, you know that I'm not technologically oriented. I actually did press "Complete" on _Passing Go_, but for whatever reason, it didn't take. So, this will be short, but this is the final chapter to this saga.

I guess you ask for it. . . you get it.

The "Final" final chapter.

Passing Hints

"So, what's all this stuff, Daniel?"

The archaeologist looked around in excited confusion. "I really don't know, Jack. I mean, look at all these artifacts—it's going to take a lifetime to catalog them all."

"And she sent it all to you why?"

"I guess Catherine knew that I'd be the one to appreciate it the most. The most likely person to be able to decipher what it all means." He consulted something on a clipboard, then wrote on a different piece of paper.

"And how long is that going to take you?"

"Like I said, Jack, it'll take a lifetime."

"You don't have a lifetime." O'Neill rubbed his face—a little stubble was growing on it. It itched. Sam kind of liked the stubble. He could handle the itch. "You have a day."

Daniel dotted an 'I' on the clipboard rapidly—in frustration. "Jack."

"Daniel."

"I mean—come on. Look around you." Daniel's face glowed, which Jack thought was a little weird.

If a bunch of old stuff gave Daniel this much pleasure, then the Space Monkey really needed a woman, Jack thought. He knew this fact to be true.

"I'm looking at a bunch of old stuff that will still be old when we get back."

"But this is—this is—_life changing_ stuff."

"Ah—" Jack raised a finger in a perfect imitation of Thor. "But is it 'Meaning of Life' stuff?"

"Dammit, Jack."

"Daniel."

"Come on." Daniel whined. He actually _whined_.

"Listen, Danny Boy. I've waited eight years. EIGHT. Nearly nine, if you want to be picky about it. We are going fishing. We are going together. We will have fun, and we will catch no fish. I don't care what you have to do, but you will be ready tomorrow. Is that clear?"

"Is Sam really coming?"

Jack ducked his head and bit his lip to hide the enormous grin he'd broken into.

She would be if _he_ had anything to do with it.

The object of his grin stepped into the lab, excitement clear on her face. "I just heard, Daniel. Do you really have one?"

"A ZPM?"

"Yeah—I heard from Dr. Lee that you got one in this shipment."

"I think it got put in your lab."

"Damn. I came here straight from the commissary—I thought it would be here."

"We can go to your lab to see it." Daniel put his clipboard down and motioned towards the door. "You in?"

Sam grinned and nodded. She glanced over at the General and quirked her eyebrows. "You coming, Jack?"

O'Neill glanced at Daniel, whose mouth had frozen in the shape of the letter 'o'. Daniel hadn't been invited to Vegas. He hadn't been there when Sam had acquired her brand spankin' new last name. Jack and Sam themselves were still getting used to this—she was technically under the jurisdiction of the Groom Lake commanding officer right now, but he'd given her three weeks to gather her equipment and pack her lab. The only time she answered to Jack was when he called her cell phone. She wasn't using his given name in public, yet, though—the slip up in Daniel's lab could obviously be attributed to her excitement over the Zero Point Module hidden within the items in Catherine Langford's estate.

Jack knew that the cat, however, had escaped the bag. Or however that particular cliché went. Everyone knew how the General felt about cats.

"Jack?" Daniel looked at him over the top of his glasses.

"What?" They'd meant to tell Daniel at the cabin. And Teal'c, too.

"She just called you Jack."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carter's eyes widen. She raised a hand to cover her mouth and the embarrassed grin that had graced it.

"Well, yeah. She's not under my command anymore. We're friends." Jack punctuated his point by gesturing to her vaguely. "She can call me whatever she wants."

"No. No-no-no." Daniel shook his head. "That's not how it works. She just called you 'Jack'. That means something."

"Daniel, what could it _possibly_ mean? She's called me that before. Now be a good boy, show her the glowing thing, and then get ready to go fishing."

Sam shrugged and cast the General an apologetic look. She went through the door first, followed by Daniel, Jack trailing in his wake.

"I'm just saying." Daniel said once they were in the elevator. "She always calls you 'sir'."

"Apparently not always."

Carter wasn't helping. She chose to chew on a fingernail instead of helping out, her cheeks still a decidedly rosy shade of pink.

"Sam? Come on. What's going on?"

She blatantly ignored him, though, concentrating on being first out of the elevator when the doors opened.

Jack again brought up the rear, following as Daniel chased after Sam. He wasn't even in the room before he'd heard Daniel pleading.

"Sam—you gotta tell me."

"Daniel—what is there to tell?"

But they often underestimated how smart Daniel was—his ability to read people. "I know something's going on. I just know it. Something's different."

Jack sighed as he watched Sam cross to the table in the center of the room. She paused at the edge, eyeing the box that sat, open-topped, in the middle.

"This is it. It's beautiful." She breathed. She reached out and pushed some straw packing material to the side, exposing the dull glow of the ZPM. "It must be at least half-way charged. No other one we've found has had this particular color to it."

"Are we sure it hasn't been futzed with?" O'Neill peered at the thing over her shoulder. "Remember the Camel-Ass one had a funky color, too."

"No—this one's pristine. I'm pretty sure of it." Sam ran her fingertips along its side.

"Yeah. Whatever. Pretty." Daniel glanced perfunctorily at it before narrowing his eyes at Sam again. "Now spill. What's going on with you two?"

Sam sighed and turned away from the device on her table. She cast a questioning look at Jack, who rolled his eyes and nodded.

"We were going to tell you at the cabin." She began, then bit her bottom lip. Jack had recently learned that she didn't only do that when she was nervous, she also did it when she got really—well—_happy_.

"You were going to tell me _what_ at the cabin?"

"You know that I'm not technically part of the SGC anymore."

"Yeah."

"And General O'Neill's being transferred to Homeworld Security."

"Yeah."

"Well, we—we uh—"

Jack threw his hands out in exasperation. He stalked over, threaded his arm around Sam's waist, and claimed her mouth with his own.

This kiss lasted longer than he'd intended, partly because Daniel's expression was so priceless, and partly because the novelty of finally kissing Sam on base, in her lab, was better than he'd expected. He held her close to him afterward with a hand on her lower back, watched her recover. It took longer than normal for her eyes to refocus. Obviously, the location had worked for her, too.

"Holy Buckets." Daniel let out a little half laugh, his eyes huge behind his glasses.

"Daniel." Jack took Sam's hand, partially turning towards their friend. "I would like for you to meet my wife."

Sam grinned and laid her forehead on Jack's shoulder, then pressed her cheek against it. She was pink again, but from something other than embarrassment.

"Wow. Guys." Daniel stammered. He suddenly burst into a wide, real grin. "Congratulations. It's about damned time."

"So. You now know. Let's get this show on the road."

Sam let go of O'Neill's hand and turned to the table. She lifted the box. "OK. I'm gonna get this up to the lab for analysis."

"No." Jack said. He took the box from her, tucking it under one arm. "I'll take it. There's a whole room full of geeks up there just dying to get their hands on this. You've got packing to do."

He passed by her on his way to the door.

On an impulse, and because Daniel was watching, he used his free hand to smack his wife on her perfectly rounded butt.

Just because he could.

And because, if he got _really_ lucky, she'd return the favor once they got back home.

The End. This time I really mean it.


End file.
